Poetic failure

I'm settling into my AJWWB, which, alas, will soon be over. I can feel my next week return to the Arvo Job nibbling at the edges of my mind. I must ignore the thought! Now I remember why I usually take 3-4 weeks off. But that's next week. For now, I get up (no rush), feed the chook (who is waiting at the back door every morning and clucks joyously when I pull back the kitchen curtains - what a suck!) and the cats, make a pot of tea, read. Then I spend the day writing, reading, walking, writing, wrestling with ideas, cursing my writing slowness, chatting, writing, wishing I were a speedier wordsmith, and taking photos of the cats chasing the chook. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - I could live like this!

This morning's pot-of-tea-and-reading session included the VWC's July writing magazine. The theme was 'How's your Motivation?', which all seemed somewhat theoretical because at the moment, motivation is NOT a problem. However, I know that once I'm back amidst the rushing around of Real Life and the effects of my AJWWB wear off and it's been ages since my last acceptance, every so often, most probably when I'm tired and come home to another rejection, I'll raise a fist to the heavens and cry "Why, why, why am I doing this to myself?"

So I really liked Paul Bateman's article, with more advice on dealing with rejections (I can never get enough of that) and, very importantly, he eloquently counsels on how to cope if you never achieve your writing goals: ' But if it never happens - and it very often never happens - stay open and alive to life. Be yourself. Be kind and content. Be secret and exult.'

I love the last phrase, which is from a Yeat's poem:

To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing
By William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honor bred, with one
Who were it proved he lies
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbors' eyes;
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.

So, once more, it all boils down to: write because to love it; write because you have to; write because you enjoy the actual process because sometimes that's all you've got (exult!).