I have recently become obsessed.

I can’t seem to move beyond it, which is okay by me. But…

For the past year or so, I’ve become increasingly enamored with minimalism when it comes to poetry, to the point that I get extremely annoyed with myself if the poems go past ten lines (and ten lines is looooonnnggg in my mind) and I can’t find a way to pull out my scalpel and cleave off a few words, a few lines, a few dirty little syllables.

Word murder.

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Ugh. Magic.

I stumbled over some old writing on Drive today. Some of it is truly awful stuff. Legendary levels of awful. Far worse than anything you’ve read here, which is admittedly an embarrassment at times.

Other bits… had some promise. I can see why I left them to rot, but they might be salvageable with reworking. Cut out the pretension and the exposition and no small amount of the fantastic and they could work. Maybe.

Others… I’m not sure why I stopped. Most likely, it’s because I got overwhelmed by the world building — I occasionally come up with ideas much bigger than my abilities to make into a cohesive whole. Other times, I get frustrated by the level of high fantasy magic involved when I was trying to go with something a little less airy-fairy.

But one thing is clear: I’m often drawn to writing about magic and I’m not sure I’m okay with that. Because, honestly, I don’t really want to write about magic. I want to write weird, horror, or mundane literature… Not swords and sworceries. And yet I do. Time and again.

Thing is, I am hung up on a couple of concepts.

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