Tag: writing

September 26, 2020: Maybe I should start reading less

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In the morning, I read the last pages of Nietzsche’s The Use and Abuse of History — now the 32nd book I read in 2020. I was happy at first, but, when I entered Goodreads to add it, I saw that I was three books behind schedule to hit my target of 48 books in 2020.

I went to the pile of unread books I have in my bedroom to choose the next book, but I got a little depressed.

One can never read enough. There is always more to read. It’s impossible to become Faustus.

And why am I reading? Why am I trying so hard to consume as many books as possible? Who am I racing or competing with? There are few people I know who read more than I do anyway. So what am I trying to achieve here?

Maybe I should slow down, read less but more carefully, write more… Think more, live more…

To acquire knowledge has been my only goal in life so far. I always wanted to know everything about everything, which is kind of — childish.

What is knowledge good for? (Foucault would say, “for cutting.”) Moreover, what am I good for?

Who do I want to be?

Aug 15, 2019: Sometimes The Story Writes Itself

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I started working on a story the other day, by mistake.

It was meant to be nothing but a quick writing exercise. But as soon as I gave my character a name and wrote the first sentence, the rest of the story started writing itself.

The story’s not done yet, unfortunately, but it’s not because I ran out of ideas. It’s because I didn’t have time to finish it yet. To be honest, I’m still not sure if it’s a short story or a novella. Every time I sit at my desk, for some unknown reason, the words just come. I just type them. My fingers dance on the keyboard.

Sure, it’s a rough first draft so far. Sure, I’ll have to rewrite it at some point. But I still can’t believe it. I do not have a plot, not even a list of characters. I’m writing one event after another, one scene after another… and the words just keep coming.

I feel inspired, though I don’t know what inspired me.

Yes, sometimes the story writes itself.

You just have to be there.

It’s Poetry When

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It’s poetry when you read it
more than once
and your coffee gets cold.

It’s poetry when no one knows it is
but you read it aloud anyway
because of how it sounds.

It’s poetry when the greatest poet
says it’s not
but you write it down anyway
and he tries to stop you
so you run with it
like a chicken with a pen
up its butt.