Out Loud
A little over a year ago I found myself struggling with one of Steve's posts.
I was muttering to myself, and the wife asked what was going on.
"Can't understand this guy. Disjointed writing. Here, listen to this . . ."
And I read it out loud. As I read, I adopted a "light Southern accent" and about two paragraphs in, I just stopped. Wife says, "what's the problem? It makes sense to me, but that accent needs a lot of work."
So I just slow down, read it with a Southern accent (sometimes my lips move, but it doesn't bother me any more), and wait for the lamp to light.
Poetry as prose.
Not every artist uses paint.
I only have one problem with Steve. The book. I'm still waiting. Write the damned book, son.