Tag Archives: writing

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So you call yourself a writer

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“The less conscious one is of being ‘a writer,’ the better the writing.”

—Pico Iyer

In thumbing through my writer’s notebook, I came across the above quote by the British essayist and novelist of Indian descent, Pico Iyer. The quote has been hanging out in the coffee stained margins of my writer’s notebook for months now. Then as now, I am not sure what to make of it. At first the quote did not resonate with me. Were these words the overindulgent musings of a man who is already a successful writer? Or was it perhaps some form of backhanded condescension to the obscure and struggling writers of the world (of whom I count myself a member).   After all, what would a writer be if not a writer?  Would he or she be a plumber – a dietician – NSA analyst?

“What did you do all day dear?” asks my wife.

“Well sweetheart, I completed the final chapter of that novel I have labored over for the past fourteen months.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says.

“No biggie,” I reply. “That’s what a good electrician does – write novels.”

Of course I am being facetious here, but I have to ask myself if I could work on a piece of fiction, non-fiction, poem, or even a technical document and not think of myself as a writer? In fact such thinking flies in the face of everything that I’ve heard about how we should view ourselves in order to achieve success. Remember the “so you think, so you shall be” philosophy, popularized in self-help books, tapes, DVDs and infomercials? Whatever happened to visualization? We all remember that, right? Close your eyes and imagine yourself wealthy, a non-smoker, twenty pounds slimmer, a confident speaker, the life of the party. Whatever you want to be, just make it happen by believing it so much it happens.

A number of months ago, I attended a lecture by a moderately successful writer, not a writer in Mr. Iyer’s league, but certainly a writer who has achieved a modicum of literary success. This writer suggested that to achieve success we should begin to think of ourselves as ‘writers’. He suggested that writer wannabes have business cards printed, websites published, and at all times think of themselves as ‘writers’ no matter what their profession. He said that writers not writing but are working at non-writing jobs, are simply miscast, and like starving actors waiting tables, they are simply waiting for the world to realize their talent.

And so, Mr. Iyer’s words rang hollow with me and I did push them aside for awhile, until I happened across them again recently. Then it occurred to me that perhaps Iyer is referring to the writer’s ego, and not the actual writing profession. Perhaps by putting aside the ego, a writer can more fully concentrate upon the writing. In any case, that is where I am with this now…if you have any thoughts, please feel free to comment here.

W E Patterson's avatar

White curtains

. Poetry . , , , . 4 Comments

I remember white curtains —

they hang without motion

in the open window

of The Hotel Caribe

as the heat roils up from the concrete

3 floors below

and I think of you —

naked and motionless

and the freedom

that comes from a day

of complete abandon, spent

…you…

AWOL from the MIA gift shop

…and me…

a half dozen hours

before my bar shift begins

at the Fontainebleau

it’s late summer

in Little Haiti

and the housekeeper

is shouting at us

in English (somewhat)

as she bangs on our door

with a mop handle

like she always does

and she says that it’s 1 o’clock

in the AFTERNOON

and we have to leave this place

RIGHT NOW

or she will call lapolis

and I remember how you

laugh at  her

like always

and you say –

30 minutes more

granmoun fanm

and we hear the mop wagon

amid curses

rattle off to the elevator

and we reengage

and  reassess

and point

your lavender painted toes

skyward

and in the end

I press my face

into the pillows that are slightly

scented with a detergent

that remind me

vaguely

of the Rodeway Inn

on the east side of Denver.

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On a balmy afternoon in Ft. Lauderdale after the fall

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I write:

“the bees from the hive,

won’t come home alive”

I am sitting, knees up

on a chaise lounge

poolside

golf pencil in  hand

writing doggerel poetry

on the back of an envelope

supported by a cocktail menu

that reads (I quote):

Little Ottawa Motel

Your home in The States

The home of the 5 dollar

Dirty Canadian Martini

Tiki bar open till 2AM

Karaoke Saturdays 5 – 7

“they’ve lost their wings,

in a million stings”

it’s four and a half weeks

since Candice went away

to Duluth, to live with

her therapist, Ralph

and 16 days after

Mr. Waters had to be put down

due to a liver condition

and I’d given away

a full box of Kitty-Krunches

and half dozen bags

of Walter Henshaw’s cat nip

to the lady downstairs

with the Siamese

“they’ve buzzed their last,

in a final repast”

a Cuban girl named Debbie

drops a rum and coke off

at my chair and I say to her

that Debbie is not a Cuban name

I demand that she come clean

she smiles, and says if I come back

after 5 she’ll tell me a secret

but she’s full of it – just like my poems

then she takes a ten from me

and walks away toward her next victim

a terribly inflated and bleached

and beached

elderly gentleman

in a lime green thong

“and they now join their brethren,

in insect heaven”

I drain the cocktail, then

wad the envelope

poem and all

into a tight ball

drop it into the empty plastic cup

and hail Debbie

for another round.

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Hate the sin

. Poetry, Writing . , , , , , . 3 Comments

Once I rented a room

in a house in St. Paul

from a lady

named Madge

who used to bang on the radiator

with her shoe

when I came home drunk

late at night, after playing cards

with guys from the Pioneer Press

I’d turn up my radio

tuned to the country station

and play Ferlin Husky

at full volume

at 4:30 AM

bang, bang comes the shoe

“Keep it down Cowboy” she shouts

next day she’d squeeze

fresh grapefruit juice

and put it in front of me

with black coffee

and a fried egg

and toast with orange marmalade jam

and she’d ask if I’d met any nice girls last night

and I’d say no, just

card drunks

daytime reporters

nightime gamblers

a fallen preacher

and an old curmudgeon

named Stew

who hasn’t held a job in twenty years

who hasn’t changed his shirt in three weeks

and is easily angered

and becomes profane when provoked

and was recently arrested in Albert Lea

on charges of one hundred sixteen

parking violations

but who’s on a hot poker run

Madge says you hate the sin

but love the sinner

she wishes me well on my new job

selling vacuum cleaners door to door.

W E Patterson's avatar

mortality

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You don’t find him

he finds you

like a lottery lawyer.

You start out on Sunday

early in the morning

before sunrise

you haul your ass out of bed

last night’s debauchery with Leah

a fog shrouded  memory

she’s face down now, snoring

and you’re hoping she doesn’t

remember all of it

but it’s a new day,  so you…

pull your jogging shorts

from the dryer

lace up your one hundred fifty dollar

cross-trainers

tell yourself that with vitamin B1

and a pot of coffee you’ll be good as new

and don’t forget that

pomegranate juice was handed down

from heaven

as an elixir for the decadent

and then…

you kiss the dog goodbye

crank Commander Cody on the iPod

and next thing you know

you’re jogging down the 4-lane highway

past the freshly mowed alfalfa field

blood pumping through your veins

and pressing on bravely

through barely passable arteries

Hot Rod Lincoln is racing

through your ear drums

and you are hauling rear for the mailbox

a mile past the house

where the kid

that you’ve forgotten to pay

for the past six weeks

is supposed to leave

the Philadelphia Inquirer.

But halfway there it happens

a shin splint

a muscle spasm

you’re cursing – kicking the blacktop

with your one good leg, so

you hop back home to  the porch

you sit in the swing

you kick off  the cross trainers

“damn” you say

a glitch in the training plan

and then he’s there

standing behind you

three feet behind your left shoulder

like your old man

the day you tried to snitch

a PBR from the basement fridge

when you were fifteen  years old

and…

you recognize the arrogant bastard:

Mr. Mortality.

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10 items or less

. Poetry . , , , , . 5 Comments

so one day

when you don’t expect it

you’re at Publix supermarket

looking for hand sanitizer

wooden stick matches

and

cocktail napkins

and you’re picking up

bloody mary mix

nine bottles of Fairbanks port

the Examiner

and

five rolls of paper towels

you find yourself

in the express check out line

in front of the rudest woman in the world

who says to you

that your items have exceeded

the ten limit maximum

and she expects you to take your

shit off of the conveyor

and

move to another line

and you say –“ too late”

and you try to defuse the situation by saying

your’re a cash customer and you wave

a one hundred dollar bill

in the air

but the manager comes over

and says you have to take

your shit off of the conveyor

and you don’t argue because

of your respect for authority

lady nods approvingly

watches you load up your cart

and move away

and you feel a little like

John Dillinger – lawbreaker

as you slink off

planning for next time.

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Bottomless pot

. Poetry . , , , , . 5 Comments

it happens when you’re driving

before dawn

on I-95 – north of Miami

on a morning in late summer

when the night heat

lingers

like an old drunk

who won’t leave the bar

at closing time

and you think that

if you were on an all night bender

maybe things wouldn’t look so bad

but when you’re blasting south

a full cup of black coffee

from your local coffee mill

perfectly balanced

in the cup holder

of your  ’99 Subaru

and you hear

that the Palmetto Expressway is closed

(overturned cement truck)

and the construction

that was supposed to be

finished LAST YEAR,

is still

backing shit up

to West Palm Beach

…well then…

your job shuffling papers

at Corporate

does not seem so appealing

and you begin to think

that maybe you should have

gone to law school or

gotten a degree in Pharmacology

like your Uncle Willis

who came back from ‘Nam

back in sixty eight

and went to UCLA

and then married

a drop-dead-gorgeous

chiropractor

from a wealthy Chicago family

and raised three beautiful

children in Toluca Lake

and retired early

to a gated community

in Cabo San Lucas

where he now raises purebred

Chihuahuas with his third wife

Evelyn and hasn’t a goddamned

regret in the world.

The lucky bastard.

So you drain the last drop from

your 16 oz brain rocket

courtesy of the BottomlezzPot

and you think to yourself

…that…

if there were justice in the world

you could take back

the past ten years

of your life.

W E Patterson's avatar

Nine ball

. Poetry . , , , , , . 11 Comments

I’m blasting Mozart’s

Symphony 41

on the Philco stereo

at close to 3am

in the basement

of the old house

up at Mt. Pocono

causing whitecaps

to appear upon

the troubled waters

of Lake Writersblock

I’m hoping for a poem

or story of great meaning

one of substance and worth

…filled with poignant words…

to spring from the well-worn

felt of the old billiard table

upon which I shoot

a game of 9 ball

with the immortal, but imaginary

Di Mozartini himself

the legendary billiards connoisseur

it’s your shot, I say

to dear old Gottlieb

as the Jupiter Symphony

fills the dimly lit cellar

with inspiration

and in its honor

I pour another cup

of boysenberry wine

to chase the cold from

the darkest hour

of a winters night

as rhapsody reverberates

off of the oil burner tank

shakes windows in their casements

rattles the box wrenches

in their hangers

above the workbench

and descends upon

disassembled lawn mower parts

on the cellar floor

I steel myself for

the final round of play

…then…

…Wolfgang Amadeus…shoots…

his shot goes awry — I say:

“a bit off our game tonight – aren’t we, old pal?”

I chuckle and chalk my cue

I approach the table

and study my shot

take my time – I see the run

but the Great One knows

I have him on the ropes.

I draw the lightly talc’d

red maplewood shaft through

the crook of my left forefinger

to the point of release, and

it’s geometry from here on

a lightly pressed shot off

of the cushion

and we’re done – finito

I say goodnight to the dark shadows

that lurk behind the oil burner.

W E Patterson's avatar

Baggage

. Uncategorized . , , . 4 Comments

The lady who rents,

Space 560C -,

That’s the space next to mine,

At the North Miami,

Rent-a-Space,

Unloads her stuff,

From a Toyota truck,

One that has,

A crushed-right-front fender,

And a missing end gate,

She tells me that she borrowed

The truck from her brother,

To haul her shit up,

From Florida City,

Now, she’s sweating in,

One hundred sixty seven degree,

July heat,

That boils in from the Everglades.

She swears effortlessly,

f-this, and f-that,

She lugs out boxes,

Like a longshoreman,

Jesus saves, reads the tattoo,

On her right arm,

Jerod R.I.P. on her left arm.

I ask her if I can help,

But she says no,

It’s just a box of books,

Crap she can’t bear to part with,

From her first marriage to,

The fucked up history teacher,

And I say that I have books too,

And she says books are not really,

Important after the fact,

After you’ve read them all,

They’re all the same.

She says that leaning on the hood,

Of the Toyota – smoking,

“Harmonicas and magic wands”

Reads the next box,

“Toddler to 2  yr” reads another,

“Letters from J — People mag,”

“crap from Jacksonville house”

“shit from Pop”

I help her carry a heavy box:

“pensacola dishes”,

Should’ve thrown these out in 1986 she says.

W E Patterson's avatar

Connor Priest

. Poetry . , , , , . 1 Comment

Long shadows of late autumn follow Connor Priest,

He walks each day along the path by the orchard,

On leave again – this time from rehab,

He trudges by my house each day at four, and he looks,

Neither right nor left, and pays no attention – usually,

To the covey of quail that flush up out of the thick dead grass,

That grows by the fence row along the path by the highway,

He’s too young for this walk – he walks like he must,

Bareheaded, he wears a light blue windbreaker,

In front of cold South Dakota wind,

He keeps his right forearm tucked into the pocket,

It’s his phantom hand (I’d later find out) – the one he’d lost,

In a faceless blast on the other side of the planet,

His left hand, the one that’s left, is exposed and bare,

Left hand holds a smoke and it looks cold and alone.

I call out to him – from the porch where I go to write,

In the afternoon when the sun is out – I have green tea, and a pipe,

So I ask if he would like to come over – to warm himself,

He waves with his good smoking hand and shakes his head,

One day, I ask again and Connor Priest crosses the blacktop highway,

That separates the orchard and the path from my writing porch,

We smoke and talk as the sky mellows with color over the trees,

He shows me the stump and he tells me about the bomb,

He saw the white flash but didn’t feel anything, nor hear anything,

He tells me he is deaf in one ear, and then he asks me what I write about,

Foolish things I tell him. We smoke until it is late and he has to go back,

A fingernail moon pushes up over Yankton. Connor Priest disappears,

Into early evening shadows that force themselves upon the old apple trees,

On the other side of the blacktop highway.

————————————————————————————-

Ed’s Note:  This poem has appeared in several places since I wrote it back in 2008, so I apologize if you have already read it. I run it here, on Veteran’s Day, in honor of the men and women who have served our country in the U.S. Armed Forces. For the record, Connor Priest is a real person. The name, Connor Priest, like the names of all actual people in everything that I write, is fictitious.