The little ditty below was another fifteen-minute product of an addled mind that’s starting to think in verse. It’s horrid itself, and I love it because it has rhyme, both external and internal and in no particular order that fits. Though Emily would curl up in her grave, she’d at least have to smile a bit at my brazen flaunting of the rules.
Sometimes–or at least right now–the more I read truly excellent writing the more I am intimidated and reluctant in my efforts (thus, the green and yellow of the poem below). I think perhaps I’ll read mediocre-nay, really bad literature. Maybe human nature will react with “cheesus, I can do better than that!” to allow the nerve to put pen to paper (sounds better and more poetic than fingers to keyboard, which just ain’t got the same dramatic effect).
But until I regain confidence, I may indeed continue writing down what’s in my head and mark it “1st Draft.”
Then, when I am older and much wiser, more skilled and free of spirit, I shall go back and revise the many hundreds of opening lines.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology