Process of Poetry

I am still editing. And it is difficult. I am still working on the critical component of my M Res, and compared to that, editing is a doddle. I don't know how to 'justify,' critically speaking, what I've written, or the ways in which I have written it. I am struggling to define my own personal ethic, in terms of writing, so that someone else can understand it, or at least have some sense of my process. But how can I explain something that I am only just beginning to trust and rely on myself? I know when I draft is 'done,' when I can't do any more to a piece of writing for the moment,  and I know when I am ready to work on it again, because my brain itches. Right now, my brain is so tired that the itching ain't happening. I have successfully titrated myself off of Pregabalin, which didn't work its promised magic on the pain, but I am not sleeping well, in part because I need to get writing done and I can't relax. I'll try to have a nap, and see if I can feel the itching in my head a bit more clearly after that.

Still No End, But Plenty of Gloom

Finishing off the critical component of my M Res is proving pretty challenging. I've put myself under pressure to complete it well ahead of time, and this simply isn't going to happen. I need sleep. My CRPS is screaming for more sleep, as is my arthritis, and I need a less chaotic household; we've been pretty full of musicians all weekend (see @martynclark's Twitter feed for more info.), and I feel like I've been a nanny, but without Mary Poppin's semi-magical powers, umbrella, and carpet bag. I'm going to London in a few days, and wanted this done before then, but my body and brain are simply not cooperating. Like a poem, an essay isn't something that can be forced out of my head onto a screen. I should know better.

Thankful, Or At Least I Will Be

So. The 3 Fates, none of them toothless, sadly, have decided that I am, in fact, disabled enough to have the higher rate of the mobility component DLA (again). A year of wrangling culminated in  I feel sort of numb; it isn't exactly something to celebrate, is it, having official acknowledgment that I am f*$%*d. F*$%*d good and proper, like so many of my patients. At least I can speak, and write, and make myself heard, and I had loads of moral support (including Rolos being telepathically beamed at me by @lumpinthethroat when I couldn't find any). I have spent the last 11 years advocating for people in my role as an SLT; now, I need to figure out how best to do it in a way that doesn't involve 4 hours of commuting and beating the hell out of myself.

Oh, and I did manage one other tiny little thing today: my first round of edits is done, and the MS sent off, so that my primary supervisor can have a read through all of the poems and short stories in my M Res collection. If anyone has any ideas about how a poet goes about training as an advocate, or doing whatever I need to do to help other people in the same crappy sinking boat, I am all ears.