I wish you were a character I invented,
because then I could close the book
and go
to
sleep

I write because no matter how far I run, how loudly I scream, or how much I scratch at the walls, there is no way out... and writing is all that's left for me to do.

I write because these thoughts cannot be consumed by the bile inside my stomach. They persist like stones, impervious to my attempts to mull them over and digest them. Not even whiskey wears away at them; they fester and seep into my blood. Left alone, they become cancer and rot away my soul. If I can't purge them from my body, I'll die the slow, retail death of the man caught in a rushing current, tired of simply not-dying.

Writing allows me to trick the water, to hold off that cold and pointless death one hour more.

The restlessness is what infuriates me most, the knowledge that it's a matter of time, perhaps, and that this feeling will pass as all feelings do; that in a week or whenever this dull pressure at my throat finally drifts away I'll be back to holding the pen in my hand as I always have. So it's a matter of waiting, of knowing that in the meantime the cuts from my knife are as impotent as the man who wields it. And here I stand, waiting and restless, like a turtle on his back, unable even to right himself.

For the first time in months, I opened the notebook of magic tricks half-learned, and the anticipation I felt with thoughts of smoke and mirrors was only equated by the sudden sadness at realizing how soon tomorrow will end.

this messy house and restless sleep
and hours of staring at tiny bright pixels
flickering and wavering after a while,
this tired sore knee and aching foot
and a combination lock at the gym
growing a thin, stale layer of dust,
this foggy head and tired eyes
and longing looks at a soft black case
that's opened far too rarely,
this dying car and long dead iPod
and all of this entropy collecting
on everything I own and am,

every day a little bit more like a drop in a bowl,
this blood thins and this skin dries
and I ponder with my hands on the keyboard
the next words I will write
and how they could possibly make
all of this
go away

the less likely I am to listen.

being on the outside
but friends with insiders
holding the instrument
but unable to play

a pigeon condescending in an empty room.

(A 20-minute reply to this 20-minute entry)

"You're right that there is a definite aura of solitude that surrounds us," Jake said to me as he leaned back and sipped at his Rolling Rock, the thick white foam at the top breaking apart around his lips, "and it definitely is about ego." I fiddled with my small cup of Maker's Mark, knocking the ice into the glass walls for the light tinging it afforded.

"You have to be arrogant to participate in this sport," he continued, "if you choose to call it a sport. There's no winners or losers in fiction, of course, unless you consider the winners those who manage to get a deal and sell their work. I don't call them winners, though." He took another gulp of the rancid beverage. "No, the winners are the middle-men, the publishers without a creative bone in their bodies, hocking other peoples' sweat and blood for a Cadillac and beach house. Bastards, every one."

I raised my glass in the air to feign solidarity. I didn't feel so strongly, never having sent a work to a major press. Maybe he had gotten burned one too many times.

"The rest of us writers are in it together. You'd think we'd all get together and encourage each other, submitting work back and forth, trying to generate magnificent works of art that are better than any of us could ever do alone. But of course we don't, and here's where ego comes in: as you put it, the Other is either unaccountably better or indescribably worse than I am. And, either way, I feel a nauseous pit open in my stomach to read their work. No, I'd rather be alone." He stood and walked to the window and gazed at his own reflection, enhanced by the darkness outside.

"So why me?" I asked. "If you don't want to work or share with anyone, why even talk to me?"

Jake sighed. "That's the key, isn't it? I will tell you again and again I'm writing for an invisible, almost epistemic audience, one that only exists in my own fantasy. I imagine the fictional readers riding on fictional busses, but at the end of the day when I sit down to type my thousand keystrokes that night, I find myself unable to focus because that audience isn't real. Even in my fantasies of sending Mary or Joshua my completed manuscript, I know that they'll look at it and smile and feel proud (perhaps) of me, place it on their shelves, and go on with their lives."

"So why me?" I asked. "Why not these online sites, or these communities that do try to provide support to young writers?"

"Ego." He walked back to the table and downed the rest of his beer. "Their writing is phony, derivative, unimaginative. I have nothing to learn from them. And the few who are good are unaccountably good - people that I feel anger about learning from." He chuckled to himself. "Kids these days. Anyone can write, you know. Anyone can open a fucking Word document and scribble down a hundred thousand words. But they all think they're Salinger because they read 'Franny and Zooey.' They've got egos incommensurate with their creations. They're full of themselves, cysts believing they're gods."

"So why me?" I asked. "Why do you even bother to discuss writing with a single competent writer? Why don't you live in your romantic solitude?"

"You'll get no answer from me. All I can concede is I'm asking the same question of you."

"Most of writing is listening," he said to me, "the rest is just sweat."

Jake tapped his pencil off his desk as he turned to me. Half a paragraph sat on the laptop screen in front of him, and from the condensation on the bottle, I could tell that he finished his Rolling Rock not ten minutes ago.

"And what are you listening to right now?" I asked.

He looked back to his screen. "Nothing."

"What do you mean 'nothing?'"

Jake's eyes drifted around the room, and I could tell that he didn't want to answer. "Sometimes everything just flows. I can hear the words that I need to write. I can feel the story bubble up to me. I love those nights, and I'll stay up as long as I need to if it means getting the message down." I waited out his pause, and then he continued, "Tonight is not one of those nights. I write a line and erase it and rewrite and erase it and I feel congested, as if I'm intentionally blocking the thoughts I need to be having." He closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead.

"So why push it?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question. After all, the next flurry of inspiration might come tomorrow night.

"I need to practice listening, and I need to practice sweating." He opened his eyes and turned back to the computer. Nothing memorable was going to come of his efforts tonight, and we both knew it. But still he pecked at a few keys, held down the delete key, and sat for a few more minutes. Inspiration wasn't coming, but it didn't seem like he wanted inspiration anyway.

It didn't seem like he wanted a friend either, so I left him alone.

Two incisions, a near-faint, exasperation, a patient retreat, frustration, consumption, and angular momentum.

A compliment, a critic, a helpful conversation. Confrontation, consolation, revelation. Reminders of the past, promises of the future, the present lost in forgotten breaths.

A million dragons; not a single stone.

the rains poured down outside
but I've been dry too long;
a million notes were sounding
but not a single song

I do not take credit for this; it is merely a retelling of a very old story. For example, see this version .

A woman sat by the bedside of her husband, who lay dying. He was a jealous man, who had always loved his wife like no other man had, and who always believed no other man was capable of such love. As his heart slowed and his breathing became erratic, he took her hand. "Please promise me, my dear woman, that you will never love another man. For I know the hearts of men, and none will ever love you as I have, and you will only ever be hurt."

The woman promised, tearfully, as he slipped from this world.

For many months, the woman kept her promise, until one day she met a charming man. This new man treated her kindly and adored her, and she slowly began falling in love with him. However, when she prepared for sleep at night, she would be visited by the ghostly visage of her husband, coming back to remind her that this man was just going to hurt her, that he was incapable of loving her as she deserved.

For many weeks this continued. The ghost was a strange and clever one, for he was capable of extracting minutia from her day's conversations and using those points against her. He was also able to describe in detail precisely the gifts the woman and new man exchanged or the embraces they shared.

Soon, the woman was at the brink of insanity thanks to the ghost. She loved this new man, but she was unable to move beyond this horrible visitor at night. Seeking advice, she asked a holy woman what she could do. "Simply take a handful of rice," she said, "and offer it to him."

That night, the ghost appeared again. And, just as before, he began telling her of that day's events - including the visit to the holy woman. "So you know," the woman began, "I must offer you this rice."

"I don't see how this matters," the ghost replied.

"I will promise to leave this man, to remain single the rest of my life, dressed in black and worshiping your memory, if you will only answer me one question."

Being a wise but selfish ghost, it was more than willing. "Ask me, dear wife."

"How many grains of rice are in my hand?"

At these words, the ghost vanished and was never heard from again.

The two-year-old heron slipped gracefully from its perch a hundred feet above the shore. Its family had been living here on this cliff for longer than anyone in the flock could remember; this generation was slightly stronger, but no wiser, than the previous one; this was simply the way it was: no wisdom was passed along, but better genes always were.
( ... )

The horsehair has frayed; the sword is falling,
and after 55,000 words describing it, I've forgotten
how to make it cut.

In my dream, I walk all the way to the store before I notice it. I reach into my pocket to pull out the shopping list and instead pull out a handkerchief and stare at it in the dim light looking for words written on it. It is at this moment that I realize I'm dreaming.

I keep the secret to myself, afraid to say anything too loudly or get too excited, lest I have this opportunity snatched away from me. See, when I know I'm dreaming, I become a god. Able to create anything I want, do anything I want... but it requires intense concentration.

The first thing I try to think into existence is Nathalie. I form the generic image of a woman sitting on the bench outside the shop window, but I can't quite get the face. Besides, I eventually reason, I don't really want her to be here. I'd much rather explore a different female form. A different body, a different hair color. Yes, like that: short, red hair, athletic build - a soccer player. Her hair is in braids, no, it's short, cut right at the top of her neck. Her bangs hide half her forehead. Her eyes are emerald green. Freckles? Not this time, let's make her complexion a little darker overall. I form the perfect shape of breasts beneath a tank top as I walk slowly toward her. I love having this control, knowing that I can make her do anything I want her to.

The periphery of the courtyard is drifting off, and I'm focusing all of my attention on the girl. There's too many details to build every tree, or to put in more than washed-out dark colors everywhere else.

I grab the back of her neck and stand her up, give her a hard passionate kiss. I can feel it as if it's real, as if I were doing this in real life. The only difference is the very dark and shadowy background, even in what I presume is midday.

Suddenly, there's an explosion. Off to my left. I didn't create this. The girl quickly vanishes as I turn to look. Streams of red and bright lights fly from a crater in the middle of the street. I hadn't planned for this. I must have lost my concentration; can I recreate the girl?

I can't focus, with the bright light in the distance. I jump into the air, start to float. Fly over to where the explosion was. There's ants crawling out of the crater. Billions of tiny ants. I hadn't created this, either. Do I still have any power? I focus, deeply, with all my might, on the ants. Suddenly they become dimes. Ok, I think, I'm still a god. I want a sundae, so I create one. Two scoops, hot fudge, oreos, peanuts. Cherries. Lots of cherries. And a spoon.

I begin to eat, and again, it tastes real. But again, there's a distraction. This one's stronger. I'm floating in blackness now. I can't create background anymore. And now the sundae's gone. I suddenly land in a house.

I'm filled with the uncontrollable urge to get out, and I start running. The bedroom leads to the hallway, leads to the dining room, leads to the living room, leads back to the bedroom. I'm running in circles. There are people here now, laughing at me. "You can't get out! You can't get out!" They call to me. I find someone standing in the very center of the house; it's Daniel. "Daniel! Help me! I want to wake up!" Daniel looks at me with sorrow. "I'm sorry dear friend. You simply can't wake up on your own. Something else must wake you." I screamed, ripped at my hair. I just wanted to wake up. I concentrated; I tensed my muscles, I held my breath. But I couldn't wake up. All I could do was run in circles, in the dimly-lit, roughly drawn house, hearing echoes of chiding and laughter. Time loses all meaning as my head pounds and tears begin to fall.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes. I was covered in sweat, again. I had just breathed a deep sigh of relief when I recognized a tiny noise as it grew in volume.

The phone was ringing.

I'd like to understand why this bothers me so.

Let's start here. Perhaps I feel that I am in some sense "legitimate" because I've spent four years working to accomplish what others will set out to do in a single month. Now that's some commendable self-righteousness! One might think, as I do (believe me, there is no absent-minded modesty in me!), that the quality of their creations is going to be beneath mine, but the law of averages is against me! Ten thousand twentysomethings, in front of ten thousand computers, might create something akin to Hamlet!

Aye, but here's the rub: one of those could be me. I could choose to engage in a flurry of infatuation, to create quickly and intensely, to eclipse even my own works! Yes, I could!

But the truth is, after 50 hours a week of work, and maintaining personal relationships, and cooking dinners, and washing laundry, I'm tired. Simply tired. So, naturally, I'm proud of myself when I manage to sequester a few spare minutes to wipe off the dusty tome and etch a few dense, well-planned words. So is it jealousy of time? Of the freedom to do this? Or perhaps I'm simply too lazy and making excuses for myself.

Maybe what it really is - and how I hate when it comes down to this again and again - is my intense spirit of competitiveness. Maybe I'd be unable to do it, not because of time, but because I'd be fighting with myself to make it better, better, ever better. I can't create without modification. I'm never quite happy; I sit and stare at the screen for minutes at a time, debating whether "fluffy" or "ragged" is the appropriate adjective.

I could defend myself for choosing to abstain, and I want to. But that's only because I feel somehow inferior, somehow lacking. Why do I believe I'm doing something wrong? Is this guilt? Fear?

No, I think it's jealousy, in the end. The jealousy that only comes from being on one side of a glass window looking out at a beautiful day, while the door stands open. The jealousy that is only felt in the words, "It's too cold out there anyway." The jealousy that only saturates the room as I sit, pick up my crayons, and sigh.

I returned from Pittsburgh with a book.
When I was 17 and tried to write poems
they came out reeking of immaturity,
but not for lack of trying.
The red book from my freshman year,
from the class I hated, was hiding
in the bottom of a tub of similarly discarded textbooks.
But this one
surfaced.
It's not a textbook, I tell myself,
but a text. I sat nights reading it, not understanding
what sex had to do with petty things,
what a crow had to do with memories. I read it
over and over and tried to copy the style -
the empty flattery of mockery.
It was easy, I concluded, to write poems like he did:
just make a few clever statements,
wrapped in a clever innocuous story. Oh
and don't forget the larger, magnanimous words
that seem to tower above all of the others,
drawing the reader to them like flames.
I never figured out when to start a sentence
in the middle of a line. It seemed random,
like the cut of a fabric or the length of thread.
I hated the class because poetry seemed so trite;
so banal and ridiculous. Something anyone could do
and look back, laughing, at the fools trying to analyze it.
Yet burning hot embarrassment tore through me
as I read about my teenage pain, thinking how my teacher
said there's nothing wrong with therapy but don't ever
compare therapy to poetry. And I traced the lines cut in
awkward places; the flow of words that never made any sense
beyond the present context. I felt those threads I wove
float into my future, land softly as elephants.
You see, I never learned to write poetry like Dunn or, what's worse,
like I always believed I could.
I wanted to keep that secret for myself,
not share that minor intimacy with anyone.
But, see, the teenage boy in me refuses to budge,
still believes he knows the Truth.