I witnessed how Angela Narciso Torres' newest poetry collection, "What Happens is Neither" (Four Way Books), was composed.
She received her publishing opportunity right after both her parents passed away and she became an empty shell. Her body was screaming, but not just with grief. The last months with her parents were filled with long flights between America and Manila. It was exhausting.
But one Thursday morning, she woke up, wrote some, edited her manuscript, and sent it to Martha Rhodes before the weekend deadline. (And then back into her shell.)
The process seems easy to do, and all incredible works that I recently witnessed (from reading many other manuscripts and craft essays from "Working On Gallery") seem so seamless like beautiful Lake Michigan in February. Have you ever walked by the lake during the season?
You cannot do that with an attitude of namahanka.
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