On Writing
These days I wake up every morning and want to put pen to paper and write. I want to fall into the madness of head down pounding out of images into words. Of ideas into dialoge. And I have this annoying imediment of a 40+ hour a week job. And responsibilities and nurturing relationships taking up much of the rest of my time.
Shadows of Amun is driving me in ways that surprise me. It has truly got me back into _storytelling_ rather than writing.
And it is a form of storytelling that is not unlike poetry. I make the barest scratches, the most restrained suggestion of language committed to paper, and the reader reads into it what they want, and takes away from it what they need. I write a 3 to 8 page outline of what I want to have happen, how I want it to look, make suggestion about character to the NPC... and then the NPCs and the PCs make it come alive, they interpret the story how they wish, they internalize the story as they need.
And just like the act of reading poerty, sometimes when the module runs I am not even there to witness the consumption of it. The impression and the impact it leaves behind. This is my current obsession, this writing none of you can see, this art that even I may not get to see.
When I was in Key West I saw a girl in the park sitting on the ground pecking away at a typewriter. She was sitting behind a sign that said "Poet For Hire". There was a small cloth basket in front of her that contained 3 or 4 rolled up scrolls. The sign over the basket says "Fresh Poems". She was literally typing up poetry as I watched, first drafts, and then letting them fly away from her, with no record in her possession of her creation of them. As a woman who possesses her own strong need for control, to be that willing to let go of what comes through you was utterly humbling. I felt very small. I don't think I have it in me to be that courageous.
She had a small pile of hand bound books she had made with some of her most recent work. ("They are fresh", she assured me). She told me to pay what I thought it was worth. It's a slim little volume, poster board cover, photocopied pages cut a little haphazardly. Hand stamped cover that reads "Tin Roof Songs". I gave her $20.
Since meeting the poet in the park I have tried to remember to be more like her. To let others place themselves inside my lines of verse. To let what is inside you well up, overflow, and bleed away. To let go of what I have created. To let go.