On Reading Myself

I spent a lot of time reading when I was younger. I spend a lot of time reading now. It is probably not surprising that someone who writes also reads, also feels solace in it. I treat it right. I read attentively. I take notes. I study.

I don't think it's fair to say that I was raised just so. I think my parents actually kept the reins pretty lose and followed us where we went. I think that the part of me that is just so, is just that, part of me. Not an external thing. Not some causal relationship. Not some scar of time and love.

We all have ropes in us. They're held together by torque and when we try to toe them, they move. The rope I toe these days has to do with spectacle and self: ways in which I can stand to have people look at me and ways I can't.

Tonight I am reading some poems.

Sometimes you just need to kill it by force feeding it white meals.

So, I'm scared of writing fiction. As the lovely and honest Abigail Ohlheiser pointed out to me a couple years ago, I am exposition-avoidant. I don't use it in conversation. I don't use it in writing. I also don't talk like most other people I know, which makes it challenging to construct convincing dialogue.

But when Brian Cook and I decided to make a vintage design and cooking project, it occurred to me that a period-appropriate story might fit well. So I tried.

And where better to start, I figured, than a story about murder by scurvy? Here it is.

Blood and pomegranate juice are not the same color.

I have been slow to write here these days. When I started this blog, it was as a way to do poetry planning, loosely. Over the years, the way I've planned out these things has shifted. Oddly, I think, having digital platforms for composing has led to an analogue practice that I find really stimulating. Now, for almost every poem I write, I make a poem planning sheet. These are somewhere between notes and diagrams, between ideas and compositions.

They don't always give rise to poems, though, as in this most recent case, which became an essay on thenervousbreakdown.com. You can, and should, read it here.