So... I've begun to use 750words as a convenient tool to get back into my print poetic practice. It's probably good for me. I tend to feel better, when I think I've been writing again. I have a deep love/hate relationship with writing (especially poetry). Ironically this is probably what brought me to want to push its bounds in the first place. I got kind of bored and restless. Anyway, the daily writing at 750words is where I completely freewrite and close my eyes. It is uncensored and unedited (except for the occasional spell-check so I can know what I was talking about if I pull phrases from the passage later). Because I've come to writing this way (formal and informal training - "experimental" writing is often all about constraint) , I often dislike writing constraints (like 750 words), but understand why they are a useful exercise. It's probably ironic that I've gone into studying writing in media. Because so much of everything about that is a constraint. I don't really count the words but rather where I intuitively feel it is time to stop. To make an official record that I've been doing this private writing practice, here is my first post at 750 words:
freewrite/ in tarnished solitude comes a little way our clear jetty. Yes, perhaps perhaps there will be something cooler in the morning. coming like a whipped up line and sliver of rock. There is no one here and nothing but the great maw of a space perhaps a twittering of resonant birds. These are the voices the silence that belies the shape of a copse. even patterns in nature doubt is like that. a needle with four other needles around it on a brach separate objects but one obese monument called branch when put together. In fractal sanctity the answer is a thing that lies ahead. It doesn't come readily. but it..you can see the skating dove of viens in how a leaf falls. No one here. nothing but the shape and absurdity of emptiness. malleable cusp of a copse well designed and evenly paced.
freewrite/ in tarnished solitude comes a little way our clear jetty. Yes, perhaps perhaps there will be something cooler in the morning. coming like a whipped up line and sliver of rock. There is no one here and nothing but the great maw of a space perhaps a twittering of resonant birds. These are the voices the silence that belies the shape of a copse. even patterns in nature doubt is like that. a needle with four other needles around it on a brach separate objects but one obese monument called branch when put together. In fractal sanctity the answer is a thing that lies ahead. It doesn't come readily. but it..you can see the skating dove of viens in how a leaf falls. No one here. nothing but the shape and absurdity of emptiness. malleable cusp of a copse well designed and evenly paced.
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