I suppose it's finally time to admit that summer is over. After all, I've been back in the trenches of work for a week now. Late leisurely mornings, fridge raiding, and untimed bathroom breaks are well behind me. Before me are lesson plans, essay scoring, and more than a few "This is boring!"s. Madre de Dios, the dawn of a new school year is fabulous!
Hence, the prose.
I'm feeling a bit guilty, though, that I didn't exactly keep my promise to chronicle my summer through poetry. Oh, if I could show you the pages of my traveling writer's journal, you could see that I did write a lot.
Yes, I wrote. A lot. I think this could be called the "Summer of Writing." It's like I finally found my voice again, and along the way I've discovered some very important truths about my craft. True writing is fluid and never ending, and much of what has made it from my head to paper is still in fragment form, like a soul waiting to for a body.
You might be surprised to find out just how many words I can produce in a day. I am.
Hence, the prose.
I'm feeling a bit guilty, though, that I didn't exactly keep my promise to chronicle my summer through poetry. Oh, if I could show you the pages of my traveling writer's journal, you could see that I did write a lot.
Yes, I wrote. A lot. I think this could be called the "Summer of Writing." It's like I finally found my voice again, and along the way I've discovered some very important truths about my craft. True writing is fluid and never ending, and much of what has made it from my head to paper is still in fragment form, like a soul waiting to for a body.
You might be surprised to find out just how many words I can produce in a day. I am.
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