I went to writer friend of mine's house. He's got shelves full of books. Perhaps as many books as I have. Now, I used to work at a used bookstore and recognized about 80% or, as far as I could tell, maybe all of the books. I'd pick these books up for a good shelf-dusting, but never to actually read the contents therein . Mysteries, bestsellers and the common, household, commercialized fantasies lined the shelves of this friend's house. I know now what type of book he'll be writing. The competition to get published will be hard for him, but the if he gets big, he'll be rolling in the dough. 

I admit, I'm not much for the classics myself. But, after visiting his place and realizing what I read compared to everyone else, I feel like some sort of highbrow, elitist, post-postmodern hermit on my solitary island of deep and significant art. There's a reason I pitch myself as a literary writer, not a pop-genre writer.

I'm not going to list what I read/don't read. I don't like to offend nor endorse. I just feel that there's books and there's books and one isn't better than the other. But, one is different than the other and what I read and write isn't what the average person reads or the average writer writes. And I have just enough of a highbrow ego that I'm happy with this fact.

Write on.

R.E. Greene

So, I’m riding the elevator from the ground floor up to my third floor classroom when suddenly a poem hits me. It hits me right in the brain with a punch that almost knocks me over. Luckily the elevator is too small to actually fall down in effectively. Hyperbolized statements aside, I get into class and whip out a blank notebook that I’ve been saving for a rainy day and start composing. It’s a fifty minute German class and I scribble out this poem from the first minute to the last. I manage to keep pace with the classroom questions and translations since I did them ahead of time, even answering without missing a beat when the professor calls on me. By the end of class I have nearly four pages written.

Class is over, and then I’m running home and make the fifteen minute walk back to my apartment in ten. I rip open my green and black backpack and pull out my purple notebook, a pen and keep composing. Finally I finish writing, but I know the poem isn’t over yet. No, not for a while yet.

Since then I’ve written two more parts to my poem and I’m up to about seven pages. I’ve been keeping a list of poems that are related thematically under a potential book title. The list is thumb-tacked to the wall beside my desk. I decided that this long poem is going to be the title poem for the collection.  Now, I’ll just have to keep adding other poems to the collection, keep composing the Title Poem, and try sending them all to the appropriate poetry publishing reviews, literary journals, and magazines. Patience is the name of the game with this creative work. My hope is, if I write it right, I’ll make a book of it someday.

 

Write on.

R.E. Greene

The John R. Milton Writers' Conference went well. My reading was fun and I got to read alongside some other wonderful writers. I am especially appreciative for the audience at my writing panel. They had some great questions and stimulated some neat discussions. The keynote speakers for the conference were all just wonderful and I'm glad to have heard and met so many talented writers over the conference weekend.

Now, I have a lot to catching up to do in homework since the weekend was kept busy with the conference and work.

Write on.