Obsessed

I have recently become obsessed.

I can’t seem to move beyond it, which is okay by me. But…

For the past year or so, I’ve become increasingly enamored with minimalism when it comes to poetry, to the point that I get extremely annoyed with myself if the poems go past ten lines (and ten lines is looooonnnggg in my mind) and I can’t find a way to pull out my scalpel and cleave off a few words, a few lines, a few dirty little syllables.

Word murder.

Who really needs “the”, “a”, “and” etc.? Stabby stabby, slice/slice while I sunder those words from their mates!

I honestly don’t know what is driving me towards these concepts. It just seems that when I write poems I should try to get to the most concentrated liqueur of the concept, a fragment of the moment, try to tell a tale in a few mere words.

Along those lines, I think I’m ready to admit that I am not a novelist. I write fiction, and the whole novel-ling thing sounds nice, but I really don’t have the patience for it. So, I’m focusing my fictioning now on short, flash and microfiction. Smaller is better, right? Condensed, concentrated gruel.

I can’t tell you about my third obsession. It is a secret. The wrong people (or the right people) might discover it and get ideas in their heads.

And I know I’ve mentioned language experimentation. Putting together portmanteaus, mashups and creating words when I can’t find one I like. Finding word combos only Jack the Ripper could love. That’s my fourth obsession.

But apparently, I am okay with lengthy, long, dreary and hopelessly pretentious pieces of semi-autobiographical writing.

Sorry. I’ll try to fix that obsession.

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