Ruthless

I have a draft for my b-essay. Finally. I got the bloody thing the wrong way around, spent so much time and words on working out the things that aren't central to my argument. I'm sorry now that I enjoyed playing around with those ideas so much. For the first time in a long while I have produced a piece of work that I am emphatically not proud of. I may have to give it in without being able to improve it much, as the c deadline now looks much, much closer than it should.

On the plus side I've never had so much practice at working under pressure. I've not really panicked since that memorable day about 2 weeks ago. I think I hit the panic button so hard that day it broke.

Another lesson learned is that you've got to be ruthless with writing - or it'll take over like some kind of choke-weed and strangle the life out of your words, honestly.

So today's mantra is this...which brings me back right to first year at Edinburgh Uni, and the lessons I should have learned.

A Giveaway
I cancelled out the lines that most let on
I loved you. One week after I thought that it was done
and perfect, practically in print – here goes again
more of this that amateurs think of as tampering.
The tripe that's talked at times, honestly –
about truth and not altering a word,
being faithful to what you felt, whatever
that is, the 'First Thought's Felicity'.
I have to laugh… the truth!
You and me and no reason
for me to imagine I know the half of it.
I've said it time and time again,
listen, you've got to be ruthless,
if the rhythm's not right, it's not right
it’s simple
you've got to cut and cut and cut.
Rewrite.

Today's fair copy skips the scored out bit.
And all the better for it. That verse
set in the bedroom spoilt the form
And was never the issue anyway. Irrelevant
At any rate I’ve gone to town on it all right
with black biro, blocked it out – hay
fever sneeze spill and kiss are all
the words even I can make out of it now.
Never could cancel with a single stroke!
Oh maybe it is a giveaway but don’t
please be naïve enough to think I’d mind
your knowing what I might invent of what I feel.
Poets don’t bare their souls, they bare their skill.
God, all this
long apprenticeship and still
I can't handle it, can't
make anything much of it, that’s my shame.
It's not an easy theme.
But finally I've scrubbed it, faced it, I know
the whole bloody stanza was wonky from the word go.
- Liz Lochhead