July 18th, 2010

Anne Eliot writing

One . . .

. . . is the loneliest number?
. . . singular sensation, every little step she takes?
. . . voice, singing in the darkness?

. . . is the number of Jane poems left to write.

Champagne is in the fridge, Mansfield Park is by my side, and "The End" is very near indeed.

This morning's writing session with Angela (angeladegroot) was spent partially in tears, because the poem I wrote was a description of Austen's death - moving enough before I recollected that today is the anniversary of her death, which occurred at about 4:30 a.m. on July 18, 1817. That leaves me to write a poem about Mansfield Park, and then composition is complete. Unless and until feedback that requires additional poems or massive revisions. I expect "The End" will come sometime this week, now that I've sorted out an approach to the MP poem.

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