42 in the bank, 30 in the recycle bin
There's nothing quite like slimming your manuscript to its essentials. It's leaner and tougher than ever, and weighing in at 42 solid-ass poems, not a one of which doesn't set up or build on another. This part feels good.
In the course of giving this sucker a first sequencing, I realized just how dark it is. I mean, yes, in terms of tone and content, but also in terms of light levels. A truly inordinate amount of this book takes place at night, or at least does in my head. The occasional brightness punctuates well, but the only element in here that's keeping this book from falling into the oblivion of some sexless Lost Highway-on-downers is black humor. And while black humor is useful, and its cousin, sweet sadness, is in occasional effect as well, there must step forward a few stories that are truly, sincerely happy.
Balls.
But I jest. There're two brewing right now (one elaborate, one simple) in a sticky note on my laptop. Every time I get concerned about the percentage of my calendar this thing is taking, I look at how far its come, and with each new revelation where it could end up. And I stop pushing. It comes of its own accord, or rather, of my muse's accord. That's just fine by me.
In following the advice of one of my (brilliant!) editors, I loaded a lot of conflict onto this book. It's time now to make it enjoyable again, if only in rare glimpses. In the stories you don't remember until someone says a name you haven't heard in 20 years, and a small, hardened place in you crumples a little, while you're in line to buy tomatoes, smoked Gouda, mint.
In the course of giving this sucker a first sequencing, I realized just how dark it is. I mean, yes, in terms of tone and content, but also in terms of light levels. A truly inordinate amount of this book takes place at night, or at least does in my head. The occasional brightness punctuates well, but the only element in here that's keeping this book from falling into the oblivion of some sexless Lost Highway-on-downers is black humor. And while black humor is useful, and its cousin, sweet sadness, is in occasional effect as well, there must step forward a few stories that are truly, sincerely happy.
Balls.
But I jest. There're two brewing right now (one elaborate, one simple) in a sticky note on my laptop. Every time I get concerned about the percentage of my calendar this thing is taking, I look at how far its come, and with each new revelation where it could end up. And I stop pushing. It comes of its own accord, or rather, of my muse's accord. That's just fine by me.
In following the advice of one of my (brilliant!) editors, I loaded a lot of conflict onto this book. It's time now to make it enjoyable again, if only in rare glimpses. In the stories you don't remember until someone says a name you haven't heard in 20 years, and a small, hardened place in you crumples a little, while you're in line to buy tomatoes, smoked Gouda, mint.