Jim Trainer

The Pain Of Editing

In Uncategorized on March 12, 2013 at 10:30 am

Welcome to the terrordome. The writing desk is the blast site. Cigarette ash, empty matchbooks, Ibuprofen, sunglasses and ripped jeans, boots and amp cords on the floor, hash pipe and typewritten poems/handwritten poems strewn around a bouquet of empties.
Editing’s a real motherfucker.  Kind of like a nervous breakdown. Luckily (for me), I have an editor. Her talent lies in being able to simultaneously deflect my sexual advances and somehow convince me to turn the music DOWN so that we can get some work done. All while holding a red felt-tip pen in her hand and a stack of work in her lap. Friday night’s editing session was epic. There was no shortage of empty bottles or tears but we managed to come up with one (1) poem to submit to the Moonstone Arts Center’s 17th Annual PoetryInk Anthology.  She tells me it’s a great poem and I can’t tell.  I’ll have to take her word for it. All I know is that the piece we came up with is complete. It speaks its own language and answers its own questions.  It’s unto itself, which is all I can really hope for.  Whether it was good or bad was beyond me but we were on deadline&I was getting drunk. Editing never gets any easier.
What’s worse, having a book published and my work accepted has changed things. It’s been a game changer.  See, I’m of the odd ilk who prefer opposition.  We like struggling in obscurity and yelling at the mountain. It’s hard to accept that the work is good without having to bleed it, or myself, for a while. Basically it’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

The piece we came up with is a plain-spoken poem, written around Christmas time, the day after I got back from Philly. There’s no magic in it and perhaps that’s ok.   A poem doesn’t always have to contain an epiphany or chronicle some precious change. Sometimes moments are heavy as lead and there are no windows in the wall. A beat dog may hang his head long after the abuse. He’ll keep his tail between his legs for a while but, he’ll learn. He’ll get accustomed to it being easy. He’ll find himself comfortably nestled on a warm floor in the mansion with his belly full and he’ll learn. He’ll learn not to react to the sudden, loud protests of the writer yelling at his editor while trying to take her to bed&throwing empty bottles at her head.

WAR IS HELL BUT RECON IS A MOTHERFUCKER
-Military Saying

chaos puts me to sleep
Swift Ships

hst homage

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  1. I really appreciate reading your blog posts that talk about the creative process for your songs and words. Also, the mental image that came with last line in that paragraph made me snort/laugh.

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