Writing prose is so much harder than writing poetry, especially memoir (though I’m a little stuck on the poetry front too, if I’m being honest). I’ve been working on my piece tentatively called “For You My Best Friend,” staring at the same words over and over again for a couple weeks, trying to add things and actually make this into a full-length book. How’s it going? Horribly. Memoir hurts. And my brain is fuzzy.
Maybe it’s because I don’t have enough space from the subject. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to expose myself. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe that’s okay.
Sidenote: Are there such things as prose chapbooks?
Ashley Elizabeth 
Leave a comment