Dear Mary Angel

Writing for the sake of writing is a horrific use of my time (as seen through the lens of someone who views each day as woefully short in hours). Except for building a habit, nothing useful comes of it, or good. Little of it good, anyway. Only the transitional poem between parts I and II of The Dance is actually good poetry. Everything else I've written since the end of December is but fair to middling, at best. But, as I've said, I get practice at the development of writing; in the mindset of beginning and finishing a piece. So something good does come of it. How's that for paradoxical? or Quixotic?

That one poem, which I am calling At the Heart of Dance, has accomplished one thing, in spite of my realization it's actually quite good. It has awakened that lazy muse of mine, or recaptured it, of the earlier (a decade, plus, earlier) piece. I seem to have found my way again. I know where to go from here.

I remember the essay I wrote in English Composition, the one that broke all the rules (I'll have to send you it to you), but because it was so good, the instructor accepted it--her words, not mine. I recounted my sense of loss of the sea, being so land bound in Dothan, and the voice I so often heard, calling me home. I still hear her voice-- didn't I tell you? the sea is a siren, whose voice, and song never quite leaves a man.

And there I believe, is the object of writing -- breaking rules.Life doesn't follow any rules beyond the mechanics: breathe in, breathe out, consume, expel, and procreate. Life loves to throw curve balls. That's the purpose of putting pen to page. That, and telling a damn fine story.

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