what i keep telling people is: i am not writing right now, i’m not working on anything, i can’t. what i have come to realize is that i am constantly working. the desire to make my work subtle and daily, a practice woven into satisfying ritual instead of a bombastic monolith, is being made flesh. i don’t notice it in the same way because it no longer feeds on me, torments me. i am learning to write the dust. i do not neglect the dust.
patchworkpoetics reblogged this from whatfollows and added:
Yes. As writers, we are always working even when we haven’t penned a single word.
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