Took me about a year since graduating to return to writing. Troublesome time, really. Depression does that.

Wrote a poem yesterday. It's without a title. Perhaps I'll post it here sometime.

When I read it I feel like I'm drowning.
When people read it they say, 'Reminds me of Plath, maybe Sexton or Bly.'

I try to think of why that makes me feel as pained as it does.
I accepted the Faulkner comparisons with my fiction with much more ease.

Perhaps it had to do with the worried words, the 'I do hope you don't follow the same path as those literary giantesses...' in regards to Sexton and Plath.
It's all under control.

Or it seems to be so until I allow myself to spontaneously write.

There's much unresolved.

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June 2014

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