There are very few things that I downright miss
about the college life. Social drinking is one. Sure, drinking utterly by myself is fine and sustainable for a small number of days in a row, but nothing more than distraction. Which is why I on both a connoisseur’s and a drunkard's level enjoy visits by my brother and enabler. Thus, he believes me an alcoholic when the term "hobbyist" would be much better suited. Just so happens that my hobbies include reading, the piano, video games and drinking. MY only addiction is the word, and I am afraid I am no longer even in withdrawal. Which brings me to my most missed aspect of college, an aspect that is not incumbent on being enrolled in as much as a pottery class. That is the degree of prolificacy I exhibited while in college. I am loth to believe that this mass of output is resident solely on existing within the academe especially considering the abundant evidence to the contrary (i.e., how thoroughly maintained was my level of production during summers, although not during winters so much.) So, I am resolving to return to my ways, seeing as I have little better to do anyway.
How can someone so wallowed in unproductiveness bounce back, you say?
It’s not going to be easy and, unfortunately, it will seriously curtail all of my other hobbies save reading. Reading is the hypodermic needle to writing’s injection; they are reliant upon each other for the possibility of success of either.Another way is to follow this column. It’s being written by a British author I admire if not particularly enjoy her writign.
It seems like a good idea and an active way to maintain the bare minimum of routine writing. I love prompts and I think it would be nice if writers, if not believe that we as a race should, love them too and find them invaluable. For you writers that are reading this, I recommend it for you too.
The third is the revitalization of how I view poetry as a tool to explore language, phrasing, syntax, all that nitty-gritty nuts and bolts type of writing that I also believe writers should be active in, if not necessarily through the acrobatic of poetic form. The apparent and senseless abandonment of this conception is probably why my poetry production has also fallen off.
Finally, it is by the daily writing of one fable, the genre-related semiotic implications of which weigh heavily in my style, at least for the interminable time being. They can be long or short, the only requirement that it be a complete fable: conflict in a relatively fantastical context, involvement in some way an animal (speaking or not), and a concluding moral, clear or not.
While I’m not scheduling or requiring of myself any further daily production than this, it will throughout be my goal to write more and more, particularly in the fiction sense. This is convenient as I have a novel to outline and at least three short stories lined up for plotting.
As I plan on posting the results (poetic and fabled and, when appropriate, fictional), it is also my hope that this inspires those of you writers reading this to yourself begin writing with high regularity, if not necessarily daily. Remember every little bit counts; advice, believe me, I administer as much to you as to myself.
So, here’s a fable. Good luck to you if you join me, but also wish me luck, if you will.A penitent hunter, small hands wracked with cold but filled besides with determination and fading adrenaline pulled the arrow from the game and addressed the stag, prone on the hard ground, the life steaming from him, “Friend,” said the hunter, “there was once a time when I would shy from this shaft. Now I see in your eyes that you are shying from this world into your reward.”
“Friend,” replied the circumspect deer, “the wood of the shaft and the bow shy not from you.”
The hunter penitently watched the deer’s weakening breath steam like the dark pool collecting beneath him, the two alone in the great and silent wood, and each individual tree shook from a wind that troubled their highest branches, the same branches that sheltered the two from the snow. But some flakes made their way through the labyrinthine branches and drifted, at last, to the forest floor, shaken loose from the canopy by the unexpected wind.
The hunter drew the knife while watching all of this happen and sheathed it with a blessing deep into the stag’s neck, releasing him into the wood.