Woke Up Like This # 13

Day 13611: Rereading parts of Diary of an Anarchist, it was clear the work was good. The writing captured something fleeting, all the records did. A moment. A memory. A series of thoughts without edit. The order, the array was part of it. For writing as practiced was a selection of one word & then the next. A grabbing onto a thought and a riding it to completion. The queuing of others for later on or never.

There were two stories to every story. Learned this in a webinar on personal essays. A decade past education & still feeling not trained enough, and yet a downright rejection of doing…