You Can Write, But You Can't Edit. Or, conversely : 19 year old girl seeking copy editor. Fresh eyes and red pen needed.

My life is a series of writing and editing. Unfortunately I broken record on the writing portion and the editing has a way of never getting done. Some of my new favorite song lyrics drew my attention to this shortcoming.

You don't have no Dr. Robert,
You don't have no Uncle Albert,
You don't even have good credit.
You can write, but you can't edit.

Apart from referencing some of my favorite songs, this brief stanza seems to pinpoint in a painful manner all of the things I struggle with. Number one: I am terrible with money...this is the most excruciatingly obvious to me. But-- I am working on it...and am doing better...if it is anybody's fault it is my fault....well, really it is nobody's fault. Success is relative, let's just say that.
Another similarity to note is that I am in a constant state of apology. Whether warranted or not, I will apologize. I used to have to run laps in tennis every time I would utter a brief "sorry" for missing the ball....which was frequent. Let's just say that my tennis career was brief at best. Yes, We're so sorry. Uncle Albert. Cause we haven't done a single thing all day. My inert state, lack of productivity speaks for itself.
And this brings us to the most important couplet: "you can write, but you can't edit". Anyone who has been around me for even a brief period of time knows that I get carried away in, as my hero Jane would say, 'flights of fancy'. Creation. Creation is the first step, and the first step only. I am a broken record, skipping jarringly over and over the creation step, unable to move forward and finish the track. I need to Edit. I need to edit so many things. This is not a skill that comes naturally to me. I add, add, add, add, add, until all my fruits are a veritable mountain. Subtraction, editing, is a vital and necessary part of life. One must assess and re-asses in order to achieve a mountain worth achieving. I have created a mountain, but not the right one.

Edit.

Spontaneous Park Poetry....or the insomniac

Subtle as the grass

a supine warrior

gaining ground,

losing sleep,

covers unkempt and

twisted. The subtlety

of the resting body,

a deceptive slumbering

ploy, occasional tosses,

turns, dwarfed in the

momentum and

Dreams of self-awareness.

Clenching jaw, mental

jabs at just

Who, Where, What,

Why am I?

find sleep, fight

for answers. Come to

terms and,

Come to bed.

Nothing fantastic, just me.

Wherever you go, there you are. I had many hopes of getting back to the Beev and feeling wonderful and happy-- unlike the slug I was all summer-- but alas, I am me, and me is here instead of there. But I may be okay with that. Apart from the crying fits and the threats to my mom to just pack up and drive home, I am happy to be me, and I am happy to be me here. I know that me is what I'm supposed to be and I think this place is where I am supposed to be it. (for now anyways). Unfortunately for this post, there is nothing fantastic like a midget bar on Cicero Ave, or a giant spectacle wearing pink elephant. Nothing fantastic, just me.