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I have a confession to make. Lately, I've been writing poetry. Really, really bad poetry and I can't stop.
I'll sit in front of my manuscript, get a couple lines of editing done, and before I can stop myself, I've clicked the 'new document' button and I'm churning out poetic vomit. Actually, let me rephrase that: rhyming poetic vomit--the worst kind.
Why, oh why, is my brain doing this to me. I'm a gawd awful poet, and that's not false modesty, it's fact.
If I'm being painfully honest, it kinda feels good getting the verse out. It's crap, of that I have no doubt, (see I'm doing it again) but I'm ok with that. I'm writing something I'd never show anyone and knowing that releases me of insecurities and the fear of disappointing. Even better, it's led to a steady trickle of words. And you know what? I'm--dare I say it--enjoying this exercise. Even the dark and depressing, angsty stuff is fun to get out on paper. It reminds me of when I first started writing. A time before the blog, before I wanted to get published, before letting in all these insecurities . . . back when I was just a girl who happened to be writing a story. That's all. I've missed that girl, but I think I've found her again, at least part of her when I write poetry. So I think I'm going to stop fighting it, and just let the bad rhyming flow and see where this takes me. The rest can wait and I'm ok with that. Really. I'm ok.