I don’t have to be alone tonight. I choose to be alone. I have a lovely partner. Tonight, I sit in my house, seeking the loneliness that is inside. I cannot access that place when I’m engaged in revelry and kisses. I like those things too, but it’s as if my alone time is where the magic is given space, time, and silence. In that void I encounter myself, my thoughts, my impulses toward good things, and dalliances toward less good things.
Tonight I am casting around for a spark. There is none. So, I wonder (at this moment of typing) what is the point of all this poetry, this writing, these books, words, and videos? Really, what is the goal?
I came to a moment last week, contemplating this same question.
“What do I want to be known for?”
It’s probably not books about my divorce. A raucous diary as it were, but less literate and more driven by anger, loss, and trying to fight my way out of the darkness. That’s not the Wikipedia entry I aspire to. I see obituaries about great writers in the New York Times each week. I wonder, “Who is that person? How did they come to be known as the chronicler of Los Angeles?” What’s the tag that I want in my NYTimes inch?
Wrote dark and compelling narratives of an artist in search of himself, his purpose, and love.
Ugh. I have no idea. I think it’s a helpful exercise. But, I learned today, that my writing, my energy and enthusiasm runs in many directions. That’s fine. My hope it that I can begin putting in the discipline to compel my main characters a little further down their journey. Each day I miss, lolligaging, napping, writing about business or tech, I lose. Well, I don’t actually lose it. But, those books, and articles, don’t really forward my purpose.
A poem. Sure. Easy. Quick. An emotional release, or capture. I process a lot of my world through writing about it. It’s how I converse with myself. I want to articulate my own structures of knowledge. Architectures of ideas that I can continue to fill for the next 30 – 40 years.
I was not a late starter. I wrote short stories in middle school. Got some encouragement in high school for my writing. And ultimately, attending the University of Texas and got my BA in English. I completed my first novel when I was 29. It wasn’t a good book. It was a start. I dabbled in an MFA program at a nearby college.
I got a strong message from my creative writing teaching during my final semester. “Keep your job. If you want to write, write. These kids getting MFAs are just delaying the harsh reality. There are very few jobs for writers. The best of the best coming out of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop will not find jobs in teaching. Maybe high school English.”
I continued to write over the next million years of my life. But things changed after a horrible event. Divorce.
What ignited (and continues to burn brightly) is the writer I am. Write it out. Write down the story so others can learn. So that others can do differently. It was my writing that caught fire. I had a torch. I lit myself on fire and continue to rekindle and stoke the flame. That’s what I’m trying to articulate here.
What I am doing tonight? Writing. Even when I don’t have a burning desire, I can write. There is a process that is fired up by an idea. Let me see if I can capture a small slice of my creative day. A day of ennui. Challenge. Boredom.
Here’s today’s log. From my Creative Output page.
Thursday 4-11-24
poem – poetry dog
poem – specific sequences
YouTube – AI Is Coming For Your Job
I had a few meetings today. One client call. And a lot of free time. I have been writing about AI, and a new ad from Google about their upcoming AI Tool VIDS, sparked a response. I made a video. The poetry dog poem came from a text sent by a poet friend. I had lunch with a long-lost friend. As I was driving home the phrase “specific sequence” fascinated me for a bit. The sounds. The meaning. Where could those two words take me?
I got busy. I took care of dinner. I delivered my partner’s dogs to her house. And I came back here for what? To sit? To be sad? To seek inspiration?
For completely different reasons I started a poem from a photograph. (Poems can easily spark from a great image if you’re listening.) And there was my phrase. Easy.
Then, I’m back here. Asking myself, “What am I doing here alone?”
The conversations I have with myself require quiet, somewhat austere, periods of time. I think I am listening. I think I am deluding myself. And I think that delusion is part of what keeps me writing. If I continue to write, if I amass a library of books, I will be read and remembered as a great writer. What? That’s a dumb idea. There’s got to be something deeper. Right?
I write to understand. I learn new things. I create new vocabularies for my expression. And I write because it gives me pleasure. I may never be known enough to have a Wikipedia page. I will leave behind a bunch of writing, however. And if the world would just wake up and discover me, I’d be teaching writing at Berkley. But, then… Shit. Then, I’d be reading tons and tons of crappy short stories. Nope. Scratch that fantasy.
So, what do I want?
I want to be inspired to write. I want to have the energy and health to write for a long time. Part of what excites me about writing is what I learn. I don’t always understand what happened until after I’ve examined it in written form.
Aspiring architectures. I have a lot of “works in progress.” As I sharpen the tip of my spear a bit, I intend to focus more energy on the longer, harder, and denser works of “literature” that I aspire to create. I’ve marveled at sentences or phrases I’ve created. I want someone to fall in love with my Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man. I want to write something deep, fulfilling, and prosaic.
4-11-24
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