I recently met a young man, a writer who is quite talented. He’s a poet with a very particular voice. We met at a poetry meet-up group and I liked him right away. His poetry gives me the creeps in good way, it gets under the skin and the way his physical voice carries out the performance of his pieces is quite haunting.
We’ve hung out a few times and have shared some of our writings with each other. Each time it’s very clear to me that his style is developed. I particularly enjoy listening to him read and perform his work. After he read a piece of prose poetry that wasn’t quite finished I asked him about his editing process because the writing seemed very fluid and precise, but untouched at the same time. I was wondering how much time he put into editing, writing, and re-writing his work. What he said to me is exactly what I expected him to say. He had written the prose piece in one sitting. No editing had taken place. I had expected him to say that because the piece had the fury of initial brilliance to it. Something that I could recognized in my early writing as a young woman. It had the feel of something only a young person, a natural who had not quite been burdened by “process” and “feedback”, or “criticism”. There was a pureness, an eagerness to the words telling the story.
I think it’s very interesting the habits and processes we as writers develop over time after having “training” and “critiques”. I’m a heavy editor. I’m very particular (most of the time) about word choice, word placement, line break, and other elements in my writing, but as when listening to this young man read his work, I get transported back to a time when the writing itself, the actual creation was a thing of manifestation, a thing of bypassing the filters between the brain and the hand.
So in an effort to get back to some of that in the moment writing that I used to be able to do so easily, I thought I’d share a poem I started today that has not been edited. Here goes:
#1I imagined snow falling down in the same angle as the sun shone They were just leaves glowing Beautiful with tiny hands like three-pronged shrimp forks puling the tight skin of my face back into a smile
There is so much about this poem that I like already, but there is so much to be edited. Thank you for letting me share this untouched! It’s good to just write and create and let the work rest.
Don’t forget to submit your poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and art to Black Bottom Review, the newest online literary journal for writers and artist. Check out information and submission guidelines at Black Bottom Review.