A great writer should stand in his novel like God in his creation. He created everything and yet is nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be heard. he is everywhere and yet invisible, silent, seemingly absent and indifferent. We curse him for his silence and indifference, which we take as evidence of his cruelty. But if the author were to intervene in his narratives - if, instead of letting facts and actions speak for themselves, he were to speak in his own voice - the spell would be broken at once.

When I feel this kind of disquieting provocation I know that it can be the beginning of a new dimension, a new direction for my writing. Sometimes, my mind rushes past it—maybe because of tiredness, or perhaps fear of what the provocation might ask of me. It needn’t be a passage from what I’m reading. Sometimes the provocation is an inkling—from an interaction with someone, or an event I watch unfold. Though the experiences can be quite different, they each have at their core a sensation that lifts the hackles of my inner attention, and I feel a particular nerve twitch—I call it the ‘provocation nerve.’ If I take the time to jot a few notes, and then, later, write into them, then a provocation can become an invocation.

it’s during revision that i can glimpse of a way out of my most normative patterning. as i re-read what i have on the page, some inkling of alternative arrives and i write it/ride it where ever it takes me. if i’m lucky i glimpse a way to fall forward, or up, or down through what i thought i’d meant, escaping its rut, re-routing, and sometimes re-rooting so the plant of the idea will grow in entirely new ground.

Necessities

crowded Monday subway its       mindlessness botanical     you take the first seat claim it        for your age your figural       effaced your t-shirt smelling        already like somebody else’s sweat a toddler is       crashing against your leg his     mom gives him a sucker he       hasn’t figured out how to     fit inside his mouth you taste      the instant’s sumptuous pause between confused and choking      on surfaces you can’t fit       your lips around and swallow       incentivizing short terms       that electronically       spit you out your genes passed on without you in the pool you     didn’t know how soon would drown     you

crowded Monday subway its       mindlessness botanical     you take the first seat claim it        for your age your figural       effaced your t-shirt smelling        already like somebody else’s sweat a toddler is       crashing against your leg his     mom gives him a sucker he       hasn’t figured out how to     fit inside his mouth you taste      the instant’s sumptuous pause between confused and choking      on surfaces you can’t fit       your lips around and swallow       incentivizing short terms       that electronically       spit you out your genes passed on without you in the pool you     didn’t know how soon would drown     you