I’ve run out of steam.

After three and a half days of hardcore writing, I’m seriously thinking about throwing in the towel with the whole Nanowrimo deal.

Actually, I think it’s a bigger endeavor than that: I have come to realize that the creative process makes me very nervous. I love getting started on a project and thinking of all the possibilities and how this one will be a wonderful and unique project —or not, but at least it will be MY project– but as soon as the first turbulence starts to hit, or the stitches start looking ugly, or the stuffing gets a little lumpy or the words start dancing funny in front of my eyes…. or the crochet starts looking wonky or the fabrics start to clash, or the cake batter isn’t interesting enough or the correct cherry brandy cannot be found…

… I guess that’s it, isn’t it. I’m full of excuses because I don’t want to face things having to stand up for themselves. I don’t want a finished product because a finished product means that others get to judge it and examine it and it’s no longer just mine to either put on a pedestal or deride.

You know… I feel like sharing something that has actually been completed. I made the mistake of posting it on some forum where some guy thought it was “too structured and repetitive”- Well, I won’t argue with him there: it IS a terzanelle (duuuuuuh). About football. Which is why I really think I should just stop pretending I’m creative and find some other outlet for whatever it is that ails me. Maybe I’ll count beans.

So here it is. Something completed for your viewing… er… yes. For your viewing. I hold all the rights to copy this bad boy, if you should really want to copy it, and there is another copy sitting at the Library of Congress, so please respect that. And if you want to tell me something about it, please feel free to do so– I am open to suggestions.

Football season is upon us; hooray!
The manly, ruthless and spandexed event
televised from Miami to Green Bay

Football season seems oh-so-heaven-sent!
A bloodbath to gladden us in winter.
The manly, ruthless and spandexed event.

Sweaty men, across the field they saunter.
Athletes can’t be bugged by academics:
A bloodbath to gladden us in winter.

The ovoid pigskin, king of aesthetics
conquering land in a fierce yardage war
Athletes can’t be bugged by academics.

The single most important thing is score:
Real men never cry, or die: they just grunt
conquering land in a fierce yardage war

Praying Hail Marys, all hopes on a punt.
Football season is upon us: hooray!
Real men never cry, or die: they just grunt
Televised from Miami to Green Bay

©Maria C. 2005