I hope you folks feel lucky. I almost titled this one “My Poe, Poe Brain”
Pretty sure I left it here, somewhere.
Probably under the pile of library books about Poe, by Poe, by people who like/hate/worship/wish to toss Poe down a well.
Guess what my research project and presentation is over?
I suppose I should quit whining about it.1
Being a 40+ year old, female survivor of the Goth wars, of course I love me some Poe. I do think that in many2 ways he was a sick man. Didn’t detract from his writing, however. Like so many geniuses, he skated on the supremely thin ice of sanity. Fortunately for him, whenever his foot popped through, he found new words.
But the real truth is that writing, esp. fiction writing, is like the very best drug ever. And I am a total junkie. I love, love, love the written word. The written world.
I like stringing together words in ways that nobody has thought of yet. I like knowing that I say something like, “… hints of honey and cream light…” and you see the dawn’s slow fingers caressing the window sheers.
It isn’t just my words that I am addicted to. Reading is the other side of the coin. I had the thought that maybe other folk’s words are like methadone – words that soothe in the absence of the true spike of writing your own stuff.
If that is so, then it’s the best methadone on the planet. So many words. So many worlds. In the right combination, words can bring understanding, peace, anger, love, grim acceptance, escape. They are the most amazing magic we are capable of working.