Writing 200 Blog Post 20 - The Witching Hour

Why do I do my best writing at 2:30 AM? 

It seems that there's something about obscenely late nights that unleashes the muse on my brain. It could be written off as a few isolated instances, but if my count is correct, two out of the last three times I've been up that late have resulted in two of my favorite poems I've ever written. It's pretty touchy-feely stuff, not the sort of pragmatic prose I usually feature here. For instance, here's a stanza in the most recent addition to my nocturnal canon:

"Every current that puts us in motion

Is one step approaching the end

But we can’t sit here stagnant, in fear of the ocean

And knowing we’re rounding the bend"

Looking back on it, I might replace "current" with "oar-stroke" or something similar, which adds more agency to the setting in motion while sticking with the nautical theme. But other than minor changes like that, I'm struck by how much I enjoy these raw, unedited outpourings of my sleep-deprived mind. It almost feels as though they're written by someone else, as though even the memory of my fingers hitting the keys must be some sort of illusion.

Perhaps I'm less guarded when my mind is in this state. The poems I tap into my Notes app at stupid-o'clock are, even more than most of my other writing, intrinsically personal and private. I never expect to share them (and this is the first time I have, even in part.) This alone—a lowering of my rational guardrails, a baring of the soul in creativity—might explain why I love to reflect on this work. But the explanation could be even simpler than that.

I often find that once these flurries of nighttime scribbling are over, I'm able to go to sleep. So perhaps the insomnia itself is somewhat a result of an idea I needed to get off my chest. This seems to better explain the urgent nature of the writing, as that also happens at more decent hours when inspiration strikes harder than usual.

Whatever it is, at least it gives some value to being awake that late.

Writing 200 Blog Post 19 - Viscera

Leave behind these phantoms

These weightless shapeshifting images

That fill you vision and leave you wondering what lies beyond

Yet too scared to even look

Leave behind the soft embraces of these quiet deaths

That pull you in closely, whisper that you’ll be okay

That you never have to leave their caresses

That you are where you need to be

Leave them. Throw their arms off yourself. Run.

Plunge into the cold soft viscera of the world

Into its labyrinthine crevices, its echoing canyons

Into the sun. Bask

In the shade of a grey overpass adorned with metal trees

Whose limbs will never know the feet of birds

Then venture further and find the things themselves

Their tangled wood and moss and dead and dying leaves.

Find that the sum of a million imperfections and shortcomings

Is something no human mind could conceive. Something 

That lacks nothing. Not a representation, but real.

Find that you stand amidst it, that you are swallowed up.

Reach out and touch the solid roughness 

Of the world. Feel the undying energy of the river

And the slow unstoppable flow of the seasons.

Weep for each death and celebrate each new life.

And return. The phantoms still haunt you,

Still wrap their clinging hands around your neck

But they’re faded. No danger lies in their eyes

Only emptiness. Finally, see the vapor of their promises.

Know that they can be escaped, if not killed

That they can be ignored, if not erased

That you can live a life in which they recede into the shadows

All but gone, all but dead.

And know that they will never tarnish the things that are real

That their insubstantial essences are impotent

They writhe, shadow-boxing. You stand apart

A part of the world of people, places, things.

The images are dark and twisted but is that the fault of the world?

Somewhere these ghosts become not photographs

But paintings that feature your fears of what might be

Fears that forgot what is.

Writing 200 Blog Post 18 - More Poetry

Nothing ventured, nothing lost

A pin falls as the curtains cross

Concealing every motion on the stage

Every thought and every word

Stays in hiding; lost, absurd

Revealing nothing but my silent rage

Tales of excess, tales of loss

Burnt by fire, bit by frost

Ever seeking, never finding. Sing!

Into our indifference:

Watch the senseless finding sense

Laugh at all your lovely vanished things

Weave the cloth of doubt and fear

Soft with silk and pull it near

Shroud your eyes with everything you hate

For if you keep your enemies

Closer than the ones you need

You'll never have to open up the gate

Never have to say goodbye

Through the veil the shapes go by

Distinct as summer days that melt to one.

Never, in the future, now

Consigned to let somebody down

Just rest alone. Forever. Is it done?

Can this eternal moment end?

The fleeting present shall extend

And fill my plans as far as I can see

But someday, will I reach a cliff?

My legs grow tired, my feet grow stiff

And plunge into the darkness, mon ami?

Well, now we're mixing metaphors

Of course we are. With death and force

Surrounding this last bastion of the heart

No plan remains to win this fight

Save feeble, flickering human light

A candle held and thrown into the dark

We watch in silence as it falls

Forever it seems, like Echo's calls

Unanswered, unrequited, unconfessed

But then this weak and wavering sign

Ignites a wick, and thousands shine

The stars appear in force from the abyss

And though the lighting still is dim

Our feet appear. The path is thin

But clear. We know, we've always known the way

Forgotten, yes, at times we left

Our feet traced circles all bereft

But never quite abandoned it to stay

And now we march in confidence

We trace the scores of aging prints

And add our fresh ones, follow one by one

The sun shall rise (though who knows when)

And all shall be at peace again

For now we fight, but know the battle's won.

Writing 200 Blog Post 17 - Publication

What are your thoughts on the predicted demise of traditional book publication? Rely on this week’s reading—or other information you’ve uncovered—in your answer. And, do these seismic changes make you despair as a writer, or do you see changes in publication as a boon for new writers?

Taking a cynical view of technology for the sake of a presentation a couple weeks back has given me a different light on this question. My group argued that the greater accessibility given to modern authors—meaning essentially everyone since the advent of the printing press—has had a negative effect. I don't actually believe this; I'm of the pretty basic opinion that hearing a wider range of voices is a good thing. In fact, taking this cynical view as a devil's advocate gave me a more positive view of the advances in publication in recent years.

For one thing, there's the bias we've heard about in publishing houses. Whether it's identity-based biases (like giving awards exclusively to white men from Western countries) or even those based on the publishing tradition (like not taking risks on books that break too many conventions), publishing still isn't equally accessible. New technologies like online review aggregators and the easy, cheap self-publishing outlets have made this barrier to entry significantly lower, and as the decisions on which books make it are further democratized, perhaps the cream will rise to the top.

Then again, maybe it's better to leave the early decisions to experts. After all, the books that make it into readers' hands will always be determined somehow—if not by publishers, then by librarians, booksellers, influencers—even the algorithms that determine which influencers individuals see, and which books appear on online marketplaces. Is casting the decision into the hands of an amorphous, inscrutable social web really superior to leaving it to a respected institution, albeit one that has some issues? Or is the devil we know better than the devil we don't?

Whatever becomes of traditional publishing, I don't think the shakeups in the years ahead will be any greater than those in the past. And, as has become far easier to recognize in the last few years, history is constantly being made. Writers will survive, and if the past is any indication, more and more will continue to emerge.