Wrangle.

The draft, I have wrangled it. Tomorrow, more wrangling. It is the same story I always write, and also a new story, in that it ends happily, sort of. Is a selkie-story, with oceanic language. Weird and twisty and unlike me. Trying to do lyric prose is brutal fun, exactly like poetry min the linebreaks. Actually, the story is in many ways an expansion of a poem from Dr. Pugh’s workshop last fall. The un-sonnet revision from the final portfolio:

*poof*

Yeah. I want this emotional core and this sound, rhythmic language just a bit off-kilter, the images described but also impossibly wrong. Working title of poem: “Grief on the One Hand.” Working title of story: “The Sea-Chair.”
Tomorrow will still be a brutal run, despite 3,000 words and the makings of a draft. I’m hoping to email my first readers a clean copy before 6pm, and then I’ll have a window of time on Wed. to revise before turn-in.
I can’t tell if this gets easier or harder or if I just get more sleep deprived and care less and the unconscious mind takes over because, well, fuck-all, the conscious mind done quit.
It is one and past bedtime, but I am jittery of draft. Jitterjitterjitter.

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