no one puts flowers on a flower's grave

Like so many things, dreading doing my tax returns is worse than actually doing my tax returns.

But it’s still icky. I’ll be glad when it’s done. Hopefully tomorrow.

I used “revenant” in a conversation with a friend today. That word rocks. It comes from the French revenir, to return.

Yesterday, I got notification that the last short story I finished, and put up for feedback on the workshop, has been selected as an “editor’s choice” for the month of July. This means that I’ll get a thorough critique from an experienced writer/editor. I’m chuffed. At least it’s an indicator that I’m shuffling in the right direction.

I got a break-through on a story I wanted to re-write last month. (As usual, I didn’t happen when I wanted it last month. Oh no, it only resolved itself after I was struggling with a new story…) So, the half-completed yarn has been put to one side and the re-write has been started. I’ve untangled the most confusing part, and now I have to return for a proper spit and polish. The revenant is back…

I’m not happy with the opening paragraphs. That indefinable quality, “the flow”, is missing.

Maybe I should listen to Tom Waits for inspiration. That boy knows how to flow… even if it’s off the chair and into an inebriated puddle on the floor. But dear lord, that voice! Full of gruff pain and joy. That’s a man who has seen every colour in the human spectrum and yet has not succumbed to despair. Much as I adore every track on Heart of Saturday Night, there is something desperately poignant about the way he sings the title track from Alice:

I disappear in your name
But you must wait for me
Somewhere across the sea
There’s a wreck of a ship
Your hair is like meadow grass on the tide
And the raindrops on my window
And the ice in my drink
Baby all I can think of is Alice

Arithmetic arithmetock
Turn the hands back on the clock
How does the ocean rock the boat?
How did the razor find my throat?
The only strings that hold me here
Are tangled up around the pier

He’s a Mad Sweeney genius poet. A crazy moon-jumping fool who inspires and scares in equal parts.

Long may he create more hideously beautiful songs and gargle them into microphones with rhapsodic glee.

But first, back to the mines. I have to sort through my statements, invoices and receipts. Another task that could be aided by putting Waits on the stereo, and drinking…