Poet Progressing to Prose

Plaudits to all you patient people.

It seems ages since I last wrote a post within this site. (Big Sigh)

Why?

What excuse or explanation can I offer?

Hibernation? Staying in bed for much longer than usual – often after reading until WAY after midnight.

 

 

 

 

Head cold

‘Don’t worry, I’m not death — I’m just a bad head cold.’

 

Took me longer to recover from that cold than it did when, in 2003, I was evacuated to Perth with a collapsed lung, influenza and pneumonia.

 

 

 

Lack of motivation? 

 

 

Although I have been working on the next novel, the research has put me right off and I wish I had not discovered that which I now cannot forget. Stomach turning and, while I think  strong feeling should be behind one’s writing, it feels as if I am preparing a dose of what I see is much needed caster oil. And who am I to offer potions? I recall the basis of the essay, written under exam conditions, which resulted in admission to Uni as a Mature Age Student. I adopted the persona of a small finger nail clipping from God’s hand; not claiming to BE God but staking my position as having come from God. I wrote a letter to Humanity and signed off as Keratin. Years later, at a bar,  an academic claimed to have remembered it.

I think some of my poetry – The Comet – for instance has similar echoes. 

So, napping it out is pretty well how I am handling my doubt about the current project.

 

But the major deficit is a lack of passion!

While I am passionate at one level about the theme of the project (organ transplants – particularly hearts) the level of passion has not risen to the stage/state of obsession which is when and where I can really get down and get some work done.

Once upon a time – 1980’s, I processed every item of the Australian National Accounts years 1969-1989, through a decade by decade series of Time Series Analysis. The results were not cheerful.

 

 

Why do I write? Why do I bother? I guess the truth of it is that, very early on, I found and was told I had a talent for writing. All my early efforts hit the jackpot first try. Just a knack. But little or no discipline with it. Generally, I was at a loss to think of what to write unless presented with a request or problem. As for becoming a WRITER, I thought I would need Life Experience to be credible. So at 18 I set out to garner the experience I thought I needed and got carried away with living, surviving and just generally getting on  with it.

Sixty years later, I have harnessed much of that experience within Mixed Fortunes which I have finally tackled the earlier layout of the print version, with the hope I don’t have to fiddle with uploading an amended file again. Great news today from a reader who emailed to let me know she had lent her copy to another who enjoyed the read. I KNOW word of mouth is simply the best advertising, so I can only live in hope the word get around. One thing which really gladdened my heart when I finished the manuscript – but before posting to Amazon – was laying my head down to sleep to ‘see’ a couple of old gypsy women nod with approval. (and I am goosebumping as I write this.) I know that story was written to illustrate a much misunderstood aspect of humanity.

Now long past midnight and I have a day out tomorrow. Catching up with one of my several very patient friends. You know the kind. Don’t see each other for ages, but that’s okay. My only worry now is that soon some of us will be dropping off the tree.

So, should I desist from continuing with the stomach-churning heart transplant saga? Or can you offer a project which will grab me down into a rabbit-hole of research, statistics and some topic most would find immensely boring but which will feed the energy needed to be passionate to the point of obsession?