Well, let us see. I write very much less than I should, and that is why so little new stuff is getting done. It has always been at those times that I have been in the practice of regularly writing that a good idea becomes a story or poem or whatever. For instance, in the case of the Bisque, it was merely my saying at a dinner one time that "this is the kind of soup you propose to." And then that seed found not the dry bony dust of my skull but the rich loam of earth that comes from writing every day no matter what crap you put down. And then it sprouts, a process which certainly can seem magical. And then there is the editing and workshopping, which are definitely not magical seeming, but magical in effect to be sure..
And so Compostable Bits is born.
Wow, what a great fucking metaphor. I have reaaallly been experiencing this lately, because I am putting aside the concept of writing what other people want me to, and have been writing gobs of e-mails to people instead, sometimes over 2,000 words long, and the more I write the easier it becomes to just let it flow. Doon't I ever know the need for having a secret compost pile, too. It's so stifling to worry about who will see what and judge accordingly. Pour it out, woman!
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