or: what i have learned in seven years of writing poetry for internet blog & attempting submissions Editing, after the fact, breaks the poem. The poem must be written in one fast rush of emotion. There may be stopping and starting within this rush. The rush may take three minutes or ninety minutes. Once the… Continue reading (Entirely Subjective) Rules for Poetry
Category: writing
brief review of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men
My through-line "theme" to make sense of David Foster Wallace is sincerity vs. form - or perhaps, sincerity AND form, given the sense of the push-pull relationship between the two. Upon finishing Brief Interviews, have read the majority of his essay on television, and I think it is one of the key essays to making… Continue reading brief review of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men
writing: the narcissism of small footnotes
The images and sonic blur that the book gave her lined up with her ideal place to live: blue-green, pine trees, little pockets of mud and permanent nostalgia so heavy in the air that people were always forming bands to understand the place or they understood it too much and were trying to get the… Continue reading writing: the narcissism of small footnotes
writing: talent is its own expectation
She was determined to not be someone who projected her regrets onto her children or had a mid-life crisis at forty-five and so needed the reminder of her twenties to be an exercise in living dangerously. This was wrapped up with the desire to read philosophy and to do it fast and do it now… Continue reading writing: talent is its own expectation
writing: screenplay #3, “muse”
The window is gothic, church-shaped, above her. She is bending over a wooden desk, working furiously; outside, it is autumn and the light is brilliant and orange. Her hair tucked hurriedly behind her ears, curling out. He comes and stands above her, looking down; there is something unusually serious about him; he is a person… Continue reading writing: screenplay #3, “muse”
writing: hunger and boys and poetry
There was a storm coming and she had run six miles and she was not hungry. She sprawled on the couch and ached pleasurably, but her stomach was ringing hollow. I am going to vomit, most likely. Why the fuck am I not hungry? Why the fuck? It was six miles. The last time her… Continue reading writing: hunger and boys and poetry
writing: literary suicide note
There was no newness to anything anymore. She sat in the house and waited for people to be finished; she sat on the couches and watched the clouds pass over the fields outside the windows; the windows were perpetually dirty, smudged sometimes when the cats shoved their homesick faces against the glass and mostly smudged… Continue reading writing: literary suicide note
writing: the cousin
The lights dimmed in the room and she left quickly. She did not want to see his face when he came in. It had been six months and she did not want to look at him. The picture was in her head, aggressive in clarity. She did not have to look. She left and stood… Continue reading writing: the cousin
writing: the holiday girl
not all of the following makes sense, really, but I'm publishing it anyway. call it "writing practice" and read at your own risk. "The meaning of literature" is something I think about often, especially after fucking, when my boyfriend has rolled away to stare at a book and I stare at the wall. I know… Continue reading writing: the holiday girl
writing: in these years, we just give up
When I woke up my teeth were sticky with plaque; this is the fourth or maybe the sixth time this week I have woken up and remembered that last night, I did not brush my teeth. Last night, I did not do anything, except lie on the floor and eat the chocolate taffy from Wisconsin… Continue reading writing: in these years, we just give up
the last pavilion 