As I begin this new venture, I tend to reflect more openly on what other authors have said. Many writers pine for uninterrupted solitude, and the need of a quiet pastoral sanctuary to which they can steel themselves for months on end. Now I begin to understand what they mean.
As a poet, I write "on the fly," as it were, penning phrases and short notes on napkins, paper bags, or whatever is very handy at the time. As an author, I am more rooted to a continuous thought which is carried forward, and backward, diagrammed, and develops on page after page after page.
I have resorted to diagramming my longer or more engrossing poems. That was very like planting and nurturing a seed, which emerged up through the loam a sapling, and grew into a slender plant, as ideas branched off, budded, unfolded, and broadened into form.
This time, however, I believe I'm growing a much larger and more intricate organism, with tenacious roots that grapple for stability and food, with an ever widening trunk, having arms and fingers breeding fingers into leaves that grope for the sun. This time, it feels like nothing less than a tree.
Concurrent with this, I am still inspired to write poetry. Surprisingly, the feel and tone of these two forms of writing is very distinct, which makes me wonder whether it is possible to have two muses, or perhaps a hydra-muse.
Whichever it is, I am intrigued by this new process of writing, though I know that I am in for a lot more weeding and watering than I have ever done. Still, I find that I grow impatient to see just what sort of tree this novice author is now growing. Once again, fingers crossed.