The art of writing

Can one achieve art by writing for a few minutes, hours, daysand days?  Can it be art if it's like the tree that falls before no one else's eyes?  Can my eyes see my own artfulness?  Can I trust what I see?

These questions pester my pondering, painful approach to getting something accomplished in this write-a-thon.  The mountain of doubt I live on is suddenly evident and no longer hidden beneath the daily plod.

So far, I've restructured the meaning of one of my poems and started a short story.  But having done so I don't feel the wonder I expected.  What did I expect?

Better yet, what am I getting?  See the above AND add a wonderful sense of collegiality from Facebook convivialities.  I've already been to Kississame, FL and back, sent photos, seen pictures of the faces whose writings I intend to meet.  And don't forget, Nicola, man we all owe her a beer or two.  Okay, so things aren't so bad and I've written and thought about what to write for three days.

What I expected is this feeling of failing I sometimes find my self . . .

Second day blues

A problem identified is a problem solved.  I read too much, too fast, digest, regress, too much.