After finishing my novel in February, I, of course, had to edit it, and edit it again. I finished my sixth edit last week and upon completing the three-week process, figured the manuscript was ready for the agent search.
But because I couldn’t get enough of editing, I started editing my poetry — I’ve written 750 poems, not that even half of them are any good. I’m trying to winnow them down into a collection. I found dozens on the writing process, like this one:
HIGH/ Shelley Widhalm
I can get high off writing.
The words to me are like alcohol.
I drink them, wanting more
My heart clicks in my chest
And my breath quickens
As I slur them scribbling, trying to cram
Even so, I never hear the rattle of ice cubes
In my empty glass.
I never have to say,
Barkeep, get me another.
I just keep on, feeling lighter and lighter
As I let go of them.
My buzz is from seeing the sentences
Like pieces of myself
Filling up the pages.
Rows of beer bottles I can come back to if I feel
I let the words go, get crazy with them,
I change words and add some,
Leave out others,
Always coming back to the wanting
Like needing a drink.
I need words, or I go into withdrawal
With the missing of what is really me and my company.
That’s what writing is.
Or is it?
I’m only one drunk writing to another.