Snow: some flakes are big.
So, it's official, I am interviewing Women Rule Writer extraordinaire, Nuala Ní Chonchúir on September the 1st - plenty time to get those questions in (see last post) - and I'm really excited. I swing between nerves and giddiness (perhaps the giddiness is just the nerves making noise). And I have been thinking a lot about (everything - no change there) wanting to do a good job of the interview, because it's Nuala's good reputation, and it's mine too.
Some flakes are small.
Clicking onto my blog today I was suddenly hit by myself - as I must appear to you, out there.
I became uncomfortably conscious of my outward persona. There are two distinct impressions my blog gives.
Some melt before they hit the ground.
One can be summed up by the title of my blog, based on a poem I wrote about four years ago.
Snow; like thought
between breath,
lapses, caught
suspended
by soft short
parachutes;
melting. Death.
Every now and then I change the 'Death' to Nought, depending on my mood, and I switch the punctuation, too. I don't think it is a very 'good' poem, technically or otherwise, but it is a very me poem.
Some don't melt soon enough.
I read some interesting blogs recently and I was inspired to respond - one of them was about responsorial poetry, and the other was a poem which had me committing all kinds of errors, including this:
Plate hair
I looked at your
picture and thought
of the words. My jaw
seized till it ached with laughter. Snort
after snort, brought tears. Face: sore
and twitching; 'theose' I wrote, and 'ryme'.
I have noticed a tendency in myself to act spontaneously. I'm not sure it is always the right thing to do (especially in hindsight), but it is very me.
This blog is my first impression, in a way, to potential agents, publishers, fellow writers, and anyone else out there, in the ether, who cares to follow my ramblings - what does it say about me?
I still don't like the image of the snow - it looks like wallpaper, and might as well be yellow, and the background colour is just slightly the wrong shade of blue/almost grey, and my picture makes me look goofy and shy (which I am) but which I don't want to appear because I want to show my serious and thoughtful side (which I have), which is hidden by my humour, which is stupid.
Real snow is indescribable though, isn't it? You decide.
Some flakes are small.
Clicking onto my blog today I was suddenly hit by myself - as I must appear to you, out there.
I became uncomfortably conscious of my outward persona. There are two distinct impressions my blog gives.
Some melt before they hit the ground.
One can be summed up by the title of my blog, based on a poem I wrote about four years ago.
Snow; like thought
between breath,
lapses, caught
suspended
by soft short
parachutes;
melting. Death.
Every now and then I change the 'Death' to Nought, depending on my mood, and I switch the punctuation, too. I don't think it is a very 'good' poem, technically or otherwise, but it is a very me poem.
Some don't melt soon enough.
I read some interesting blogs recently and I was inspired to respond - one of them was about responsorial poetry, and the other was a poem which had me committing all kinds of errors, including this:
Plate hair
I looked at your
picture and thought
of the words. My jaw
seized till it ached with laughter. Snort
after snort, brought tears. Face: sore
and twitching; 'theose' I wrote, and 'ryme'.
I have noticed a tendency in myself to act spontaneously. I'm not sure it is always the right thing to do (especially in hindsight), but it is very me.
This blog is my first impression, in a way, to potential agents, publishers, fellow writers, and anyone else out there, in the ether, who cares to follow my ramblings - what does it say about me?
I still don't like the image of the snow - it looks like wallpaper, and might as well be yellow, and the background colour is just slightly the wrong shade of blue/almost grey, and my picture makes me look goofy and shy (which I am) but which I don't want to appear because I want to show my serious and thoughtful side (which I have), which is hidden by my humour, which is stupid.
Real snow is indescribable though, isn't it? You decide.
