on difficulty

What writing is, is a constant effort to keep oneself inspired, to play tricks on the mind so that you keep alive, or rekindle, that tiny flame of desire licking up the void somewhere between the roof of your mouth and your tongue. This silence, waiting to be turned into speech.
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(Geeky digression:
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There needs to be another word there, in place of 'turned' -- i thought 'distilled' at first, but that's not right. Then i thought 'condensed' -- as in, the condensation you see on a cold glass of water. But the word 'condensed', when applied to descriptions of language, has come to mean 'concentrated', which is what happens when condensation happens... But it's not what i had in mind. So, 'turned'. For the moment. Until i find something better.
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End of geeky digression.)
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Anything can do it -- the trick is finding the right thing at the right time. Today, it is taking out Tim Liardet's The Storm House. i could spend my entire lifetime reading his poetry, especially this collection. It sings and howls with grief and pain and guilt and anger, made somehow transcendent by his words. It's difficult writing -- in all senses of the word. And it makes me want to write, to write better than i've written so far, to take what is difficult and make it happen. Thank God for small mercies.
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