An Aquatic Bird

My writing is barely passable right now.

My critical work on Jane Austen is OK, but my own creations are just no damn good and my recent attempts at poetry sucketh, yea they sucketh big time.

Whimsy likes my poetry and wants me to self-publish.
'Make a hundred, sell them for a tenner each!' She said, 'I'll buy one!' But her idea of a poetry book is very delicate and rare rather than something on Lulu/Amazon; I think in her minds eye she sees almost a hand printed creation where you can run your hands over the textured paper and feel the type sunk gently into it; an old style book bound with a ribbon, a thing of serious production values. I can see it too, but am very clumsy, and could never make it. Besides, selling a hundred copies is no small matter, people seldom buy poetry and I am no Mary Oliver. 'Oh, it wouldn't make money,' she continued, 'but it would be beautiful.'

Like almost everything else, it needs headspace I don't seem to have. My mood is flat. I was up at 6 and opened the back doors to the rain, refreshed by the sound and feel of all that water. Then very close by in the dark,I heard an animal honking which made me jump. It was kind of goose-like and made me wonder if those swans were walking up our street in some surreal pre-dawn parade.

My senses are weirdly keen right now. It's not a bad thing, in fact it's pleasant, but it's mortifying to be so bad at expressing it.