Nah, not the classic 1968 Bee Gees song. I’m referring to those fridge-magnet-word-poetry thingys. This week, we stayed at a little cabin in Mazama for the weekend, and the fridge was pre-stuck with words, glorious words. Evan, Marin, and I spent hours creating little haiku-like poems for each other.
Now, I’m not saying these things are all that great. But I’m rather fond of some of them.
Actually, it seems to me that these terse little word convulsions are a peek into the writer’s soul.
After writing 2000-word stories, these short fits of brain venom are somehow gratifying.
In retrospect, so many of these are directives, but some are cautionary.
Some are disturbing.
I feel much better now, thanks.