Tag Archives: Writing

Keep Fucking Going

This is a note I wrote to myself. But I’m going to share it with you, because just like me, you look like you could use a little motivational kick in the ass, too.

Don’t worry that it’s about writing, because it’s really not. It’s really about anything that’s big, scary, hard. Maybe you’re working on your relationship with someone; Maybe you’re trying to lose weight; Pay down debt; Stay out of the snowbank on turn three of the ice track…

It doesn’t matter. This is for you.

Continue reading Keep Fucking Going

Heading Toward Poetryville

Took a wrong turn on the interstate.

Hear that’s a bad part of town to wander.

Get jacked.

Get beat.

Fall in love.

Nothing good ever came from poetryville.

No fancy car plant,

no pig processing,

no industrial byproducts of radiological progress.

Just these fucking, haunting thoughts.

These carnivorous brain worms;

the ones that just won’t leave

until they’ve devoured all my capacity

to not think of the dainty elegance

of a pink elephant on a circus ball,

the sexual possibilities of

a lesbian tight-rope trio,

the damp sweat rolling down

a chocolate malt melting in the afternoon sun.

Poetryville – Where the details hurt,

where observation can kill

with delicate, impossible gossamer

hummingbird aerodynamics,

where no rose is ever a rose,

and no stone lays unturned.

The biggest problem laying

in wait for the unwary traveler in the heart

of poetryville is the black hole

of self-involvement. “Oh, how

do I feel about this or that?

How do I look? What do they think about me?”

Get sucked past the event horizon

and crushed to an infinite point

and ripped into your constituent quarks

all at the same time;

It’s dinner _and_ a show.

Better to be in prison for all my days

– fuck the poh-leese –

for stabbing some motherfucker

than to be in prison for all my days

– oh dear, a rather poor review –

cow-towing to pernicious ass-hats.

I gotta make a hard burn,

go without shields

to escape that gravity well.

This car just won’t make it –

ain’t gonna do the trick.

Get myself a ship

– doesn’t have to be much –

and a clear sky with hard stars.

Light the fires, kick the tires

and let it rip right off the edge of the page.

Boosting to break orbit is no time to hold back.

Fuck the poh-leese

and fuck poetryville.

The Drowning – A Love Poem

Wrap me in your
cold, gray arms
and let your
windswept shores
be a sandy haven
for my young heart.
Let me apart from
your sweet, clear kiss
for just one gasping,
desperate breath.

I’ve been by your
diamond bedside
all day, but now duty is
the lever moving my world.
Here is the sun;
Tuck it deep
into your pockets and
keep it safe
’til I return?

Call me back;
call me back!
Let your voice rise from the northeast
and foam and fury
and lash and spray
and call me back
to your icy, dark depths
which no mortal lover,
least of all me,
knows.

How to write

Going through some older files and found this advice I wrote for someone (me?):

Here’s my advice about writing, distilled just for you from my degree, from my published and unpublished works, and from conversations with other writers about their processes:

1. It’s all about planting your butt in your chair. You show up every fraking day. You write every fraking day. You gladly grab onto the shirtails of your muse when it decides to show up, but you’re at your desk regardless. You turn off your internal editor and spew thousands of words of drek. You stash the drek in a drawer. You come back to it in six months, and sift it, looking for the few nuggets that are sure to be there. Assemble the nuggets. Smelt them. Forge them. Polish them. Sell them. And then do it again.

2. There is no writer’s block. There is only “not writing.” There are plenty of excuses for not writing. There are even good reasons to be not writing (like making dinner for family!). If you find yourself staring at a blank page, simply begin writing. Here’s your first paragraph: “I don’t know what the fuck to write. I’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. This sucks. This writing sucks. This story sucks, too. But here we go anyway.” If after writing that first paragraph, you find yourself still not writing, go back and write it again. Do it as many times as it takes for your brain to get bored of it and start writing something else. My personal record is three-and-a-half pages of that garbage. But fuck it; paper’s cheap.

3. If you’re still reading this, you’re not writing. See number two, above

Delicious Mistakes

Weaving myself a cloak
of the darkest chocolate
so that I might prowl the
soft folds of the midnight forest
slip through wavering shadows
weakly cast by the weary moon
and slip unnoticed to your doorstep
and relieve you
of your heaviest burdens,
these poor, unwanted truffles,
is only the most recent of
my many delicious mistakes.

0400

It’s in these early, dark hours
when the house is still gently snoring –
prowling cat confused by my footsteps;
stars in full, cold fire overhead –
that I can drop a small stone
into a slick, glimmerless pool
and slowly follow the ripples
to the heart of the matter.

 

The Weekly Races

It’s time to line up –
like Matchbox cars on a bright orange track –
for this week’s races:
“Professional obligation” has the pole this morning,
followed closely by “boredom.”
Next, it’s “family,” then “illness,”
then “new ideas” alongside “shiny things.”
“House maintenance” has the inside of the back row,
and finally, there’s… oh, there he is;
Just rolling out of pit road, it’s “over-booked.”
Gentlemen, start your engines;
This is going to be a hell of a ride.