P.S. Cottier is a marvellous poet. Funny, run through deep with horror at times, she has a way of capturing character in story, and of making me laugh out loud. I published her poem The Fruit of Her Hands in the issue of Midnight Echo I guest edited.
You can find more of her work here, and you should.
“When my writing well has been poisoned by evil naiads, I follow the following detox program:
- Stick to routine as much as possible. Sit down and stare at the computer. Torment editors about work sent out ages ago. Write lists of recent publications. Browse a dictionary.
- Read other poets, and even prose writers. A word or phrase may trigger something. If nothing else, you may be pleased to find a particularly bad poem by a very well known person and think Well at least I write better than that! It’s like hugging a big smelly teddy bear called Schadenfreude.
- Go to the gym. The theatre of grunt removes unnecessary thought, leaving space for new thoughts to breed like massive, rippling cane toads.
- Enter a competition, particularly one with a theme. Even better if the theme is outside your usual area of exploration. Do you invariably write haiku about water, frogs and loss? Try a competition about climate change. (True, that might involve water, frogs and loss…)
- Dabble in other art forms. After producing your fiftieth hideous pinch-pot, poetry will seem like a blessed relief.
- (This number sick is definitely not endorsed by the AMA.) Get totally drunk, until you begin to feel like you have jet lag. The feeling of disassociation can produce some nice new perspectives. Some people travel for the same reason, but I find that Planet Vodka requires no visas.
- Murder a naiad by drowning her in her own poisoned well, while reciting an original nursery rhyme. A dunking motion is the best, I find.
There I stand, looking at my own reflection, totally cured with a nice fresh well. Please fell free to adopt my seven step programme, should it appeal.”