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I used to think that writing was a lifestyle. Writing was Gonzo; writing was Gatsby. Writing was dreams with sharp teeth. I used to believe in a state of mind that, if properly cultivated, would instantly produce relevant, edgy, brilliant writing. I used this belief to write an entire novel that was relevant, edgy, florid, and went absolutely nowhere.

I printed and bound that book. I thought it was finished. I thought the lifestyle had finally paid off. It sat proudly on my desk between “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” and “A Scanner Darkly.”

Now, it sits quietly on my shelf between “Zen in the Art of Writing” and “Steering the Craft.” Its paper cover is surprisingly pristine; the spine is flawless. The top of the pages are grayed with dust. It’s a treasure, this book, a time capsule, a warning sign.

When I look at it, I don’t see foolishness, even though it is truly awful. I don’t see failure, even though it was never published. I see a doorway, a window. I see that beliefs can change and that writing isn’t just creativity; it’s craft.


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Now:

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

"Grown-Up" ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Then:

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun.
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.

'Twenty-four Years' ~ Dylan Thomas

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