Thursday, September 29, 2011


My piece for tonight is finally ready. I edited it until right before my rehearsal yesterday and I'm pleased with it. It look many drafts, many line edits, lots of searching the help from a couple of writer friends but it is ready. I read it aloud yesterday for the first time since the first draft and realize there is a musicality to it that I wasn't aware of before. My performance coach asked if it was originally a poem but I said no. She said yes it is, whether you want it to be or not. Fair enough. I've been writing poetry long enough that certain rhythms and patterns are natural to me. I like the piece, a combination of dark and light. I'm going to submit it for publication when the performance is over. I just have to remember to breathe while I'm reading it. Hell, I have to remember to breathe all the time.

I like performing even though I don't do it as often as I should. I'm comfortable in front of a crowd, I'm comfortable sharing my work, intimately personal as it often is. I can honestly say I write for myself and on one else; that is a rare gift. I don't even expect or want to make a living out of writing. I've seen up close how writing for work can stifle an individual's own creative drive and passion. I don't want that to happen to me. I work for a living but I write for myself. Painting feeds my belly while writing feeds everything else.

The last few days a strange heartbeat has moved into my throat. It isn't constant, it comes and goes. It feels almost like panic even though I'm calm. I feel my heart aggressively in my throat, something moving in me.

This song is a heart-wrecker from the first piano chords.

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