We always hear the story about the poet/author who keeps his/her oeuvre simmering over decades, and then finally sits down and writes a masterpiece. But what can we learn from this story? Is it dangerous to--in cheesy pseudo-psychology terms--keep it all bottled up inside?
I've been really busy and stressed out lately, and therefore have been not writing. The things I've tried to write have been disappointing, and I don't like to disappoint anybody. So that I don't feel like a slacker, I've been trying to accumulate some images and let them percolate and create a tension, with the hope that one of these days I'll put the inbox and annotations aside and just write the damn thing. I'm still waiting for the water to boil.
How do you feel about the poetic crock pot: toss in some items, put the lid on, then try to forget about it (and not peek inside until it's done, no matter how tempting it might be)?
NOTE: If you are going to put noodles in the crock pot, wait until the end of the cooking time, or else you'll have a bloated, gloppy mess. Rice can be delicate like that, too.
Anyone else out there have something simmering? Is there such thing as too much time under low heat?