Kind of ridonculous.

I've taken on a lot of writing responsibilities this last week or two. I've also been somewhat crappy about managing them, I guess. We'll see.


I've had some great new ideas for the essay for Madz's literary journal. It's moved from simply an apology to the editor to an indirect method piece on how to fail as a writer. Because somehow "failing as a writer" seems somehow impossible and paradoxical to my mind. You can struggle as a writer, you can give up as a writer (I guess), you can even "betray" your own principles with what you end up writing for, but "fail"?

As far as I can tell, writing is less a lifestyle--something to choose to do or fail at doing--as it is some inborn part of one's mind and personality. I want to be a writer because I can't help it. I want to string words together, either verbally or literally (literally), constantly.

As such, I suppose the article will go all double-indirect-method-y and actually explore what it means to be a writer....? by failing at it....? Hm. I'll needa think on that.


As you can tell that article may not be entirely ready for the journal. As such, I offered my editor, by way of something concrete, some old(er) poetry of mine. I went through and found what was good and typed up what I hadn't; I emailed her links to anything I'd blogged with notes on what changes, if any, I felt were necessary; and otherwise got myself all warm-feeling and hopeful regarding my prospects as a poet.

I mean, I'd basically given up on myself. I never seemed to write any poetry anymore, and what I remembered writing all seemed so mediocre and unfinished and pointless. Turns out it's not as hard as I'd thought to churn out something decent--that is, something that needs only a little reworking or continuing here and there to get going on its way to useability and maybe even goodness.

It's weird, too: In looking over the various drafts and fragments of things I've poeticized, I think I've found some weird kind of self esteem or respect or something. It occurred to me that I may actually have some gift-ness at stringing together compelling, interesting, pretty words and phrases. Can you tell I'm not good at breaking modesty?

Well, even the crappier fragments had occasional bits of worth, and that was also heartening. Like, "Hey, I might actually have something to offer, some kinda usefulness, some kinda recognizable style-ness. Imagine that.".


I've been pretty shit about the short story at the moment. I'm sure y'all can understand why. I've never gotten this far with pretty much any of my writing ever, so it isn't easy. I don't really know how it's supposed to be done--revising and shit. Like, I imagine it's not good to pack on as many writing obligations at once as I have. If only for clarity of mind. Oh well.

It's a learning experience.