Scary Times

I hate moving house. That is to say, I'm addicted to moving house but get completely twisted up about it. This time it's a bit more complicated because I have a poetry assignment to do first then my back may not be up to much tidying and sorting. It takes several goes to put my socks on, for goodness sake.


Despite that, things are going pretty well. A363 end-of-module 'masterpiece' electronically posted, Marley and the Crow 4000 word sample starting to get ready for SCBWI competition, and rationale coming together for fantastic fiction module assignment. Go me. Which leads me to the gaping hole in my plan. I haven't got enough poetry for the publishing project assignment. I have edited it and concentrated it down (the way I've been encouraged to do) and now it just doesn't fit. I need 180 lines and I have 138. It looks like I need another poem or two and since I can't just knock one out, it takes me months I'm searching through old drafts and free-writes looking for them.


So I'm looking through the rough drafts from A363 and A215 and, although I found the chapters scary as hell, I did come up with some good stuff. I couldn't appreciate it at the time: by the time I handed in my A215 assignment it was all just crap, and somewhat blurry, to my terrified eyes. Yet I got a good mark and they were OK. My notebooks from that time are full of little snippets. I keep notebooks, so why on earth don't I ever look back at them?