wAnK

Poetry blogging is a pretty pretentious/narcissistic thing. Writing as if you write for no one or for yourself, but making it available to everyone. I don't know, I'm doing it right now. Writing as if someone actually reads these jumbles of words that I string clumsily together.

I love reading. I love it so much sometimes I want to take a crack at writing but I am always disappointed soon after when I can't express a sentiment or the beauty of something I have experienced in my day, because it seems there are no words. Nabokov writes so beautifully. I have pin-pointed this as a combination of a) his disgusting brilliance and b) synaesthesia. Raymond Carver was a drunkard, minimalist, yet he said so much with the few words he used! Murakami is plain crazy with his tongue-tied Sheepman and marathons and 2am bakery heists and characters who are some of the most confused, complicated people I've ever read!

So, yes this might be wAnK. But it's fun.

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