To begin talking about writing strategies, we’re going to talk about pottery. Specifically, the kind of pottery created by a bunch of Psychology students who do not, normally, create pottery. The students themselves were given an assignment where they were split into two groups, each with their own similar yet different goals. Members in group A were asked to make as many pots as physically possible for the span of a month; the higher the number of pots, the higher the possible grade. Members of group B were instead asked to submit a single pot, whose quality would determine their individual grade.
Lamp Post is inspired by the small, irrational stories that float to the mind’s surface when confronted with the unknown. The brief thought that a strange creature could be watching just outside of a dark window at night, or the wondering of what is really moves below your feet in a cold lake. Playing with space here allows the poem to separate and explore individual superstitions as a person moves through the world around them.
I bet there’s new bones, buried here
Soft, and polished,
Laid low with dirt and intention.
Good feelings and cascading lace
I bet the land has had enough of it
Convinced we move the oil, make room
For the dead, and our ancestors.
This poem began in a coffee shop as a simple writing exercise, where I turn on Spotify, find an instrumental song that I enjoy and just, go. I like to start most of my writing sessions this way; It rattles the pipes clean and helps satisfy my chronic procrastination. I don’t necessarily start on my determined project of the day right then and there, but I’m still being productive, and whatever unrelated stories are trying to express themselves get their voices heard.
First Find Water became an unexpected pleasure and much longer project to work on. Rewrites and reflection revealed a character processing an empty world devastated by climate change, where she must find the basics we look for when attempting to survive.
“I advise you to prepare for the worst”
She is small, and ever walking
Her turns, are sharp as elbows
And each heart beat finds its palpitation
River, river. You used to run and have life follow