Partly, I just needed a little downtime with the kids. Partly, I needed to attend to work-work in preparation for the new school year. And partly, well, I've been a little detached from my novels lately.
You may recall my post about John Henry, the folk hero. Henry was born to drive steel and went down swinging when the team drill made him obsolete.
Mid-revisions, I felt quite a bit like Mr. Henry. I was in love with the practice of writing and with my work. I found value in it regardless of what the larger world might ultimately think of it-- whether it it was published or not.
And I do still feel that way.
Often.
But then, there are the "Spike Driver's Blues" kinds of days (or months!). Spike Driver's Blues, by Mississippi John Hurt, is sort of "the flipside" of John Henry, about a more sensible man who decides to turn in his hammer before it kills him and go back home.
This is the hammer that killed John Henry
But it won't kill me
No, it won't kill me
No, it won't kill me
Take this hammer and carry it to the captain
and tell him I'm gone
Won't you tell him I'm gone
Won't you tell him I'm gone
John Henry, he left his hammer
Laying inside the road
Laying inside the road
all covered in blood
John Henry, he left his hammer
All painted in red
All painted in red
All painted in red
It's a long way to East Colorado
Honey, that's my home
Honey, that's my home
Honey, that's my home
Take this hammer and carry it to the captain
and tell him I'm gone
Won't you tell him I'm gone
Won't you tell him I'm gone
Here's Mississippi John Hurt:
Writing--any art-- is a cyclical sort of enterprise. One day you're John Henry, the next, a lowly spike driver heading home.
What are your experiences with the your work?
