Dammit. I just need an hour. (Among other things.)

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Really, all I ask for is an hour to myself (that and a computer, pot of coffee, music, and my notebook. Okay, and maybe some Chic-O-Sticks.). I can get so much done! For real. I promise.

All throughout the day/week/month I keep tidbits and snippits of phrases and turns of words that I like in a spiral bound notebook. Then I like to sit down at my computer with really loud music and put them into an electronic word document with no thought process - just plain old transcription.  THEN I go back through and edit the shit out of that hot mess and make some poems.

But I just need that one room and that magical hour to myself! For me, this is probably the hardest part of being a poet - finding time for the fine tuning. In the grand scheme of things this seems like such a trite complaint. But dammit, right now I am frustrated and this is what happens: I get to rant about it on my blog. (Isn't that the whole point of the interwebs!?! Well, that and making memes.)

In case you are wondering  - - this is what my current notebook looks like. I feel like Harriet the Spy when I take it out of my bag and begin writing in public. It's pretty awesome.

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