Showing posts with label Writing Prompt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing Prompt. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Writing Process

I was cleaning up some old files and came across this old free writing exercise. I tend to compose in blank paragraphs and then see what develops. This is what I banged out:


I’m afraid I will die and no one will ever know I was here, I think that is why I write so I can leave a mark but I am writing in chalk on the sidewalks of a city that never sleeps. By tomorrow my words will have been washed away by foot traffic and summer rain. I have no philosophy to change the nature of man, and my lexicon is the product of a public school education. All I have to work with is Silly String, Paint by Numbers word pictures and an old Poetry Writers Guide picked up at a yard sale in Queens. My diffidence breed behind the walls and seem to be immune to bug spray, but I still chase them from the room when I turn on the lights. I have nightmares where Walt Whitman is trying to pick up Jim Morrison in a bar and the hairy bastard won’t even look in my direction.

After several edits (sorry, I cant find the various incarnations) it turned into a poem that ended up being published by The (&) Ampersand Review. This is the poem in its finished form:


Screw You Walt Whitman!

Obscurity and irrelevance
are scarier than death,
so I write to leave my mark,
but I am writing in chalk
on the sidewalk of 7th Avenue
and 42nd Street. Tomorrow
my words will be washed away
by fashion footwear
and afternoon thunderstorms.


My fears breed behind decorated walls
and seem to be immune to bug spray,
but I can still chase them
out of the living room
when I turn on the lights.
I have no philosophy
that explains the nature of man,
and my lexicon is the product
of a public school education.
All I have to work with is Silly String,
Paint by Numbers pictures
and an old Poetry Writers Guide
picked up at a yard sale in Queens.


I have Body Electric nightmares,
and Walt Whitman keeps hitting
on Jim Morrison while he plays
the piano at Rick’s Café Américain.
Despite my efforts the hairy bastard
won’t even look in my direction.


SMG
(Re-printed from The (&) Ampersand Review III)

Source: http://roomspimp.blogspot.com/2010/08/writing-process.html

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