I cleaned my chicken yesterday. Something spilled on the floor and a friend was coming over and..did I say chicken?

Words like to scramble in my head. In college I attributed it to lack of sleep and the type of stress that comes with performance anxiety. But truthfully, I think those twists show up instead of the word I need to use just because they can…crafty little cluckers….

But it’s not just single words that jumble. I notice that when I write, more often than not, ends will wind up being beginnings, beginnings may wind up at the end or elsewhere, and middles may be spread throughout. Almost always, parts need extensive reordering. Years ago, I pointed out a number of syntax errors in a student’s work, and he said, “Man, I really write the way I talk,” to which I responded, “Don’t we all?” For some reason, he had been under the false impression that professional writers don’t have this issue.

But that’s why we revise.

I spent too much time revising my music, which is probably why I stopped composing after graduate school. A teacher I loved blamed himself for this, for making me too analytical about my work, destroying my creative spontaneity, but I told him it was a necessary process.

And then, for a while, I couldn’t summon the word, “spontaneity.” “Superfluous” kept leaping into its place. And all they share are three letters.

In those days, every note felt superfluous. It was as though I had emptied the drawers and cabinets in my kitchen, intending to clean and organize their contents, and wound up discarding everything instead.

But I don’t do that anymore. Creation in messy. Nothing comes out clean. You imagine a kitchen and a chicken pops into its place. And maybe you can turn it into a meal, or a snack…or maybe you freeze it for later and go back to what you intended…

You get to the point where you realize either route is fine, and both would benefit from a good brine and some seasoning….

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