Mischa Fox

My happy place is snuggled up on my couch with either a book to read or my laptop to work on one of mine, with at least one fur baby asleep under the blanket with me… listening to the rain drum against the leaves in a lazy all day thunderstorm.

Which is today.

I’m so grateful for the lovely view, the petrichor scent—the fact I found a place like this without giving up city amenities. Namely that I can still get Curry Up Now delivered 🤣

I’m embarking on the next revision for SING THE BONES this weekend… and it’s incorporating things I’ve never done before as a writer.

I’m excited and nervous…

But also loving the result.

I love how each iteration makes this story better and better. How each new take teaches me something new about myself and writing.

Michelangelo explained his process as not looking at a slab of marble and puzzling out what it should become… but chiseling free what was always there, setting it free. This was after he took an “unsalvageable” block ruined by another sculptor that no one else had hope for— and made not one but dozens of sculptures from it. When asked, he said he could see all the figures inside, waiting to be let out.

I see novel writing like this.

Chiseling the story free.

Poetry, on the other hand, is messy, savage, and fierce. It bursts forth in a hot lightning crack, refusing to be tamed, refusing all rules outside rhythm, musicality, and image.

It tends to bite back if I attempt to edit.

I am fascinated by their differences.