Thursday August 18, 2005
There’s always a reward in the fruitless wrestling with a failed sonnet, I told myself somewhere around the eleventh draft. It’s good honest labour, a worthy thing in itself.
I tried it over and over today, every which way, to no good effect. Deciding the basic idea was insufficient for my purpose, I gave up in disgust, spiked it, and turned my efforts instead to catching up on laundry duties.
Somewhere around the third load I got my reward when I was least expecting it:
An old blanket