from the doctor’s, 2017
Hello again, my dear uncertain someones,
I should’ve said every other week or so, yes, and been clearer. A weekly update letter may just be too much when there’s so much to say and so many words in the way but here we are and ain’t that a contradiction. Wrote a thing recently called “ambiguation,” though, so perhaps it’s no surprise.
Maybe I should make more lists, and post them. And get more readers, like the listers get, as I like to see in my likely misperceptions. X ways to know Y. A ways to be a better B. The Z things you need to know about nothing. Is it really true that if you say less, more people will listen?
For all my life I’ve wondered this, and for all life long I’ve tended toward the yes. Spite, perhaps. Maybe malice. So I thought maybe I should try it.
Learning about that, I am, about anger and patience, wondering how much of what I wrote last year was about that, or them. And how much of that how much is publishable. That’s what I may be soon finding now. Soon, now. As I wait with patient anger for something new to write about and some new old way to do it, and for some magazine/pamphlet/handout/contest to take my old new stuff and put it in print before I lose my nerve or change my mind or drop it altogether. Ok ok, just talking now, doing that little posture dance to premeditatively mitigate potential disappointment. And to think, potential and I used to be such friends.
Well, anyway, deadline met (last night), and now I sit back and list out the Seven Ways to Await the Accolades. Think I’ll post a piece of that submission soon, in a few minutes maybe, or a few hours, days weeks months whatever, see what some of you uncertain someones think—I said long long not so terribly long ago I’d do so and now it seems I shall so do. And then get back to writing like a normal person instead of fucking Dr. Seuss, and I don’t mean that in the sense that sentence’s fucking grammar represents.
Till then,
M.
M. 
Ha!
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I’m not a writer as I’m more preoccupied admiring various penned art by talented wordsmiths and I believe you are an exceptional writer, M. I’m also grateful you’re one of the WPress writers who’ve helped shape my appreciation for Literature and the English language (not on the same page with you as to Clarice Lispector though because her most famous work — that imo lacked real substance — was done when she was only in her earliest 20’s; she was outstanding no doubt yet I wish she were more prolific when she was older). Albeit there were some posts of yours last year which hardly struck my fancy — out-of-the-blue posts I figured you managed to scribble in one sitting. But then, that’s usually what blogs are for: to be able to explore and experiment with motley of styles imaginable.
Okay, in actuality 🙂 , it’s good to see you’re still around and doing this. True artists, I’ve noticed, never fade away and just carry on with the craft.
That was a gorgeous photo you took — resplendent cloudy skies over the city horizon. Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you for saying these things, and for reading and looking–and thinking. I appreciate the honesty more than anything, and that makes me wonder why simply telling a stranger the truth is often so difficult. I write what I write the way I write it because that’s how it feels that it needs to be said, at least in that moment. And yes, sometimes those moments are too brief or terse or fragmented, and what comes out is more like a scribble than a pieced-together puzzle. But they’re all at least replies, every last one, and they’re all tries–you’re right, that’s what blogs are for and that’s how I approach mine. And I’m very grateful that my attempts have made an impression on you, despite our differing views on Lispector… I’m curious, what substance do you think Near to the Wild Heart lacks? I felt it was/is almost nothing but substance, and that’s what hooked me.
Thank you again.
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Don’t get me wrong — several of your posts were wonderful. But I took a break from Like clicking bcz many co-bloggers either quit writing or were lost by reason of political bents. It’s crucial to grow as a writer and be able to write the way you want to, of course.
Perhaps it was rash of me to say Lispector’s bestseller lacked substance. It was unquestionably an arresting piece of literature due to stylish and exquisite writing. Still, the life gospels she could impart aren’t groundbreaking for me. Joanna’s character — which btw I have a soft spot for — is the only one fully developed in the story. The author’s philosophical take on matters (such as eternity) I find inordinate. And very basic or simple thoughts had been mostly stretched into (lengthy) metaphors. The majority of Lispector’s fans are young but please don’t take that statement in a negative manner. I’ve a hunch, though, you’ll outgrow your fascination for the book in the near future. Peel away her poetry and there’s practically nothing new that hasn’t already been gleaned from one’s own life at a certain stage.
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I see. What I enjoyed (and enjoy) most about Clarice is precisely that poetic stretching. I feel that wisdom lies in poetry, poetic writing, poetic thinking, poetic living (see the bit in my last post about idealism). This is not to say I think style is salvation. Only that the mode of expression has at least as much to do with meaning as the underlying substance. There’s not much left when we peel the poetry away, or maybe that’s just my fear.
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