Memorizing poems is a practice that’s nourishing, meaningful, and entirely unproductive from an economic standpoint.
A world that is hostile—because it is too hot, or too racist, or too authoritarian, too misogynist, or too neglectful of your community’s health crisis—is a world that is at least indifferent if not antagonistic to your making.
Without attention, the projects behave badly, turning a little weird. Job application, I think, why did you get so ponderous and stale? You, book proposal, what are these funny little sentences? And, as they curdle, I start to resent them: uggh, why are you still kicking around? Isn’t it time for you to graduate or get a job or something?
Riffing on Portlandia, we’ve decided that any charcoal disaster can be solved by “putting a pear on it.” My drawings are full of pears that exist nowhere in the original still life.
I suspect that lots of writers engage in a similarly optimistic to-do list shuffle, bumping failed or failed-for now projects from calendar to calendar
Hard to do something when you don’t have the supplies or even know where they are.
This is a follow up to the post a couple weeks ago about what a sad thing it is that growing up means winnowing one’s avenues for artistic expression. As I said there, even as I love all the arts, I am really a words person. But even within that category, I have a narrower…