Time was it drove me crazy; now, not in the least. I’m a scatterbrain. I have so many writing projects on go I have to make lists of them and prioritize, only to come back in a day or two to add to the list or to re-prioritize based on that day’s brain activity. It would be a burden if it didn’t produce results for me. Since I began writing, o those many years ago, I have produced six novels (four published); about sixty essays (at least twenty-five published); a handful of plays (two produced); a gazillion poems and short prose pieces (with tons of publishing credits). So, you know, I don’t spend too much time worrying about product, just because my process is a little whacked out. I don’t think a day doesn’t go by where I don’t get an idea for a project — a lyric essay, a poem, a play, a full-blown novel, a memoir — it matters not, for they come from tumultuousness that is inside my skull like flashes across the sky. The only solution I’ve found to harness the lightning is to find some bottles and throw a bolt or two into various vessels for safekeeping.
- I journal. Every day. I write longhand in purple ink. In one of an array of journals. Sue me
- I have a desk journal. A car journal. A small journal for my pocket. A journal on my iPhone
- I blog here, duh
- And throw lines here — Dr Purple
- And tumble here Odd Spine and The Emptiness
- And write an occasional column here Memoir Notebook
- I tweet both as myself @WmAnthony but also as Odd Spine @spiltpurpleink the former for standard tweets about the usual, and the latter for lyrical fragments
- I have a blogger account too: Odd Spine and The Emptiness (blogger) but I’m not the most regular writer there
- I have a site where I blog on art, and about reading Carl Jung’s Red Book
- & probably a few others, I’ve forgotten
My point? Today when I sat down to write I sat with my dog Sugar on my neon lime green felt Futon, smoked my pipe, and in purple wrote out fifty aphorisms and fragments in a special notebook. None of them the length of any respectable paragraph. But I wrote, never the less.
The downside to having so many streams of writing going at once, of course, is committing to one route to kayak down. But that’s for another post. For now the kayak is beached. But the water flows on, maybe Heraclitus said that, maybe not. And ultimately as no river is refused by the sea, all my streams eventually make their way into that one big thing. Or so I tell my selves.