Well, I got up at 4 a.m. and thought I'd have a chance to finish off some grading, maybe think my way into a notebook entry, maybe make some tea and watch the sun come up. But with deadlines looming up on Tuesday for final papers and final grades--and maybe with this prickly still heat that settled in the past few days--there is nothing but panic in my inbox this morning. And that's the morning. All given over to panic. And for what?
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Gratitude and thanks to all of you for your support and congratulations below. The generosity of this community is incredible and I am a much happier and more fufilled writer thanks to you and your blogs.
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From jane dark's sugarhigh:
In fact, everyone reading or listening also knows these formulae that are being demonstrated with exemplary narratives, from which they can learn nothing and experience only cosmetic difference. This happens year after year; decades pass. Surely the publications and talks would just stop?I don't actually see why it would stop, considering the compulsion to repeat--with variation--is so powerful (and the compulsion to repeat with only cosmetic difference is part of any coherent poetics). Shift gradually: that it does.
I can't speak for ought.
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Graded final portfolios for the beginning poetry class in conference today and discover I'm a trained marathoner. Worked through seven portfolios with seven students, each an hour or more, and remembered the exhiliration of seeing the results of long work and a little pressure towards extensive revision. The work is good. These sessions used to wear me out beyond belief, but I'm feeling all right tonight.
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