Learning to Love the Weeds by Susan Grieger Literature is born when something in life goes slightly adrift. I've always thought of writing as a discipline.
Writing is hard work.
Practise, practise, I'd repeat to myself as I relentlessly rolled another sheet into the typewriter or, later, as I called up another untitled document on my Macintosh. We must not say so. I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. This poem was strangely comforting. If a depressed alcoholic like Berryman could make art bloom from his inner desert, perhaps I could, too.