hiding from salesmen

There is a poet that I like named Scott Poole. He is from Vancouver, Washington and is the resident poet of Oregon Public Broadcasting's monthly show, "Live Wire!" Today I was reading an interview he did a few years back. When asked what his writing routine was, he answered...

"Well, first I drop into a cold sweat. Then I lie on the floor and wonder if I'm dying. Then I see if there is anything on television that I can steal. Of course, there never is. Then I sharpen a #2 Ticonderoga pencil and throw it into the swimming pool. After that I consider becoming a Barista or Phlebotomist. Then I panic again. Then I watch the movie Barfly, if I haven't done so in the last month. Then I drink a six pack of Fat Tire ale and fall asleep under the living room rug. When I wake up hungover I do seven hundred jumping jacks and then prepare a meal out of nothing but extra virgin olive oil, leeks, and the latest issue of Sports illustrated. Then I eat a box of cookies and read a few lines out of The Old Man and the Sea: "I have seen lions on the beach..." Then I burst into tears and roll down the stairs. At this point I'm just about ready. I play every CD I have that mentions Johnny Cash or is influenced by him. Then I put on my writing underwear with a picture of Emily Dickinson on the crotch. Then I stare at the wall for 17.5 minutes. Then I start writing with no clue, and eventually I produce some piece of trash that I take out and throw in this deep pit I have dug in the back yard. Then I burst into tears, make a sandwich, and tell myself that I'm a freakin' hack and that I don't deserve to live. As I am driving the car at breakneck speed towards a cliff to kill myself, a great idea usually pops into my head at that moment and I have to stop and write it on my leg with a pen I keep in the glovebox for just such an emergency. Well, maybe it doesn't always work exactly like that, but that's how it feels."

Amen.