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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 100 Maybe a warm typewriter. I work very hard at it, sometimes I work late into the night. Tomorrow is tenuous. Today is quicksilver. I am ravenous. I devour T. S. Eliot and Theodore Roethke. When I am alone, I write, it must be something hard, something challenging enough to wrench my mind away from the unsolvable crazies that frequest every day. I try, with doubtful skill, the disciplines of Shakespearean and Italian sonnets, and villanelles. I dream in iambic pentameter. I love writing, as I love theatre and ballet, and making love, and eating chocolate bars. I write four days a week. The fifth day I teach a Creative Writing Workshop for the community school's adult education program. I don't know exactly how I fell into this, but it's nice. Saturday I clean up the house (which by nightfall is no longer clean and stays that way for the next six days) . How difficult it is to bring life to a piece of blank paper, to derive color and sound and movement and feeling from written words. The main thing is to continue writing. I have sold several poems and some articles, so it must not be all bad. One editor writes that I may have been "too much influenced by the poetry of Dylan Thomas or some of the later surrealists," saying, "thus the language, just when it is supposed to surprise us most, takes rather predictable |