The one about editing

So I've been putting this post off for a while because writing it meant that I would have to actually do what I have been dreading - editing some of my pieces. To be fair, it's not like they're getting worse just sitting there, untouched, in imperfect form. It's not like putting off weeding the garden or painting the house. I'm not going to open up a poem and find that the sentences have slumped sideways or rogue words have wormed their way in between my carefully chosen vocables. 

Right?

Now I'm not so sure. When I began scribing everything into documents I felt warmed up, like I had just stretched and was ready for a run. Then I got busy and kept putting off editing and now I've gone cold. I've brought up my editing worksheets several times in the past few weeks and immediately found more important things to do, like check the mail. Again.

Recently, I've kept in my bag Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. She suggests (actually, she mostly demands,) that you free write in a fantastic fashion. The more disjointed, erroneous, and gibberish-filled your sheet of paper becomes, the better (I guess?) I'm certain there's something to this method, but it's still completely not me. Lists are me. Orderly structure is me. I feel if I just go writing willy nilly then I will miss something important because I hadn't been carefully considering all angles.

So structure it is.

For the next few weeks I'm going to focus on one piece that I have been relatively happy with since it's original form. I have a lot to say about it, but for the sake of the aforementioned structure, I'll start with editing.

But not today. I'm still not warmed up yet. I'll include the piece here and in the subsequent posts, rip it limb from limb for my own pleasure.


Gardening for Children

That night we searched for the most fertile land.
We each had a shovel
and a basket of baby things for either
a little girl,
or a little boy.

It was dawn when we began to dig.
Sinking spades into dark dirt
hoping to find one, swaddled and sweet.
She’d be perfect; a sunrise child.

When by noon we hadn’t found her,
we knew we were doing something wrong.
“You can’t dig up a baby,”
he said, despondent.
Staring that the ground,

I pushed around dirt with my foot, sullen.
He threw down his shovel and walked away.
I didn’t stop digging because
I still had all these things,

For a little girl,
or a little boy.

Fall, 2010