Dear Ether,
I've been doing something very strange lately. I've been writing prose. I'm not sure exactly what to call it yet or what it means. It it fiction? Essays? Just sentence-crafting till it's time to break lines again? Whatever it is (as yet to be determined), I'm having a ball doing it. I actually can't wait to get at my computer in the morning instead of dreading it. Then again, a pang of worry about time-wasting and failure strikes about every other hour, and I don't know if it's some lame attempt at trying to recapture my youthful, genre-bending sense of freedom (a.k.a ignorance), or if I'm subconsciously distracting myself from own pathetic, poetic impasse. At the very least I'm telling myself that I've never been someone who keeps doing the same thing because I know how to do it. The not knowing how can be good, right?
In any case, I won't be writing a poem a day this Poetry Month but I'll be trying to add at least a page a day. We'll see what--if anything--comes of it. Whatever it is, I hope it sounds and looks like this: