Lida
Darlings! O, Darlings. I trust you read Ethelie’s post yesterday? It is no doubt impolitic of me to speak out, but I fear I must disagree with her. O, she will be so cross with me!
All this talk of discipline, of iron will! Of steam and trains and engines! Of gears and machine-like precision and reliability! One commenter dreams of building a poetry robot!
The imagery, my darlings, simply does not work for me. Ethelie’s soul may be made of steam and steel and gears; mine is made of different stuff. And thus I shall re-envision things. Ethelie may be my supervisor at the Directorate, but she is not the supervisor of my heart and mind and soul.
Let us try a different metaphor.
Writing is my lover.
I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.
I feed my writing lobster dripping with butter; it feeds me strawberries and cream. I feed my writing pie. We lick each other’s fingers clean.
On a lazy afternoon, I curl up in bed with my writing for a warm and drifting nap. We hold each other late at night and whisper secrets by the flickering light of a candle.
I take my writing to a dark and smoky bar on the bad side of town and listen to sinful music and drink too much. I caress my writing as we dance and grow warm and insistent together.
I plant a garden with my writing: we labor in the sun until our limbs grow languid. We plant fertile seeds in moist furrows. I wipe dirt from my writing’s cheek, and a trickle of sweat from its neck. I lean in and smell the ripe scents of earth and sun and work, and I tell my writing it is beautiful.
I touch my writing, reveling in its textures, its softness and its sleek muscles. I trace my pen along its curves and planes. I take my writing in and hold it close and it cries out softly in my ear. There is nothing else; we do not need anything else; my writing and I are enough.
I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.
I want it every day; yes, please, more, more, please, O God.
Yes.
And you?
My darlings. It’s your writing. What metaphor rings true for you?
Create it. Share it in the comments.
Darlings! O, Darlings. I trust you read Ethelie’s post yesterday? It is no doubt impolitic of me to speak out, but I fear I must disagree with her. O, she will be so cross with me!
All this talk of discipline, of iron will! Of steam and trains and engines! Of gears and machine-like precision and reliability! One commenter dreams of building a poetry robot!
The imagery, my darlings, simply does not work for me. Ethelie’s soul may be made of steam and steel and gears; mine is made of different stuff. And thus I shall re-envision things. Ethelie may be my supervisor at the Directorate, but she is not the supervisor of my heart and mind and soul.
Let us try a different metaphor.
<h3>Writing is my lover. </h3>
I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.
I feed my writing lobster dripping with butter; it feeds me strawberries and cream. We lick each other’s fingers clean.
On a lazy afternoon, I curl up in bed with my writing for a delicious nap. We hold each other late at night and whisper secrets by the flickering light of a candle.
I take my writing to a dark and smoky bar on the bad side of town and listen to sinful music and drink too much. I caress my writing as we dance and grow warm and insistent together.
I plant a garden with my writing: we labor in the sun until our limbs grow languid. We plant fertile seeds in moist furrows. I wipe dirt from my writing’s cheek, and a trickle of sweat from its neck. I lean in and smell the ripe scents of earth and sun and work, and I tell my writing it is beautiful.
I touch my writing, reveling in its textures, its softness and its sleek muscles. I trace my pen along its curves and planes. I take my writing in and hold it close and it cries out softly in my ear. There is nothing else; we do not need anything else; my writing and I are enough.
I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.
I want it every day; yes, please, more, more, please, O God.
Yes.
<h3>And you?<h3>
My darlings. It’s your writing. What metaphor rings true for you?
Create it. Share it in the comments.
I am afraid this is quite what I Expected from such a wanton Harlot. Please report to my Office at 9:00 tomorrow Morning.
I hope you haven’t gotten into too much trouble, Lida; I love you more than ever! I need a fan and some of that air-conditioning after your sultry Exhortation. A beading glass of ice water, slick with sweat, will have to do.
I haven’t a metaphor yet, but now I am setting to think one up. Writing is my big-top, circus pony? Writing is my muscled bronco? I seem to be heading down equestrian paths. Me and my unicorn …
I wonder if it is the heat of your message that made me suddenly want to ride horses …
Darling Agent Rocket! Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing about your delicious circus. Cotton Candy! Well-muscled broncos! Absolutely edible.
Ethelie, I didn’t even mention suckling. I am afraid I did not receive your summons until just now. We’ll have to reschedule.
Lida, your Words touch my Heart. I am looking Forward to the days when that is how my writing rings to me again. Those days were lovely indeed – and quite prolific in their own right.
But Alas, now I have Bills to pay, and a House to be able to Afford, so the Brain & Heart Space required for such is simply not to be found.
But soon….