It is early. A small group of poems are gathered
outside the labor exchange. In the tallest poem,
bullets and fireballs sparkle in the distance of
a lonely man’s face; and, in the poem leaning
against a wall clutching a pack of cigarettes,
an out of work actor climbs into a cannon,
My novel, Isn’t It Pretty To Think So?, was published in June this year. I’ve been candid about my writing process from the day I decided to post my first chapter online until the day, years later, when the completed manuscript was forced out of my hands. But I haven’t shared too many of my…
So much truth here about the creative process. For me, the rigors of the journey that go into making a painting is always it. The finished piece, not always that much. I might be happy with it, but there’s always that emptiness that gnaws at you until you start on something else.
I used to have this envious feeling towards the type of writer who never gives a second thought to whether their readers might not all be white and middle class and highly educated. That’s the whole world to them. All their characters sound like the author and like each other and like the reader. It seemed to me you could write so much more cleanly and stylishly when you didn’t have to try and think yourself into many places at the same time. Of course, it probably isn’t easier—the grass always looks greener elsewhere. Anyway, in my situation, every time I write a sentence I’m thinking not only of the people I ended up in college with but my siblings, my family, my school friends, the people from my neighborhood. I’ve come to realize that this is an advantage, really: it keeps you on your toes. And it seems clear to me that these little varietals of voice and lifestyle (bad word, but I can’t think of another) are fundamentally significant. They’re not just decoration on top of a life; they’re the filter through which we come to understand the world. To be born into money is ontologically different than to be born without it, for example.
I like this.