Posts Tagged ‘Writing’

Some words come and go as trends and this list is a general list of words that I’ve noticed poets, or just writers in general, should probably avoid for awhile.  Or use very sparingly.  Feel free to contribute.

Dancing (when used as a personification. “The light dances across the leaves.”)
Obvious art references, e.g. Sistine chapel
Most astronomy references (again, obvious ones. Everyone can find Orion.)
Rib cages
Hip bones
“Math term” of “-ing word.” Like “the geometry of yearning” or “the algebra of forgetting.”
Fever and/or fever dreams
Cocoon (especially as a verb)
Anything that sexualizes food
Ghost when referring to anything that’s not a ghost

Edit: 9/5
Anything to do with Alice in Wonderland


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Part 1!

Part 2!

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Almost anything can be a poem.

Very few things can be good poems.

Many things are good poems in some contexts, but bad poems in others. This does not mean that you have to like these poems, even if you can admit that they are contextually good poems. You can still think that they’re boring.

Steal, but don’t copy. Steal aspects. For example, I’m stealing from our revered professor, Joe Scapps, right now. But I am not trying to be Joe Scapps; I do not have a mustache on my face.

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More like Spring bullshit. You want to know what’s new with me? How about some existential crises? I also feel like I have no grasp on my own writing anymore. I may or may not get a tattoo with Raise Up Roof Beams lyrics and probably freak Nathan out, who, I have to remind myself, is not actually my friend no matter how much I like to believe that he is. I do not have his phone number. We do not hang out. I have never made him and Anne dinner.

Reading Sartre and cannot help but think of Beth as Anny and Randy as Antoine. For no reason at all. I really should not have taken two and a half philosophy classes this semester. Why? BECAUSE IT’S FUCKING ME UP. Also its so much goddamn reading. Of course I can go to class and reading a hundred pages every night. Why can’t I do that? I mean, that’s absolutely reasonable. I have lost my ability to connect with literature. Because I can’t do anything but read for main points. Except for with Sartre. I’m too emotional, and yet too distant. Walking paradox.

I wish I could have classy blog posts like Alison Feldish.
I wish I could be in Costa Rica like Abby.
But most of all I wish I could be with Kenny.

I have been working everyday, but I have not been doing enough work. I do not feel like I am capable of working hard enough to be a good writer, because I will always favor sleep over writing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to myself.

“our mother has been dead for so long now”

More Nausea, staying up late tonight.
I hope it warms up so I can wear these dresses.

All my affections,

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“In children, however, the impulse to tell stories and the impulse to play with words often seem to coincide, seem, indeed, to be part of the same impulse. The differences between poetry and fiction, between poets and fiction writers, may now be too well understood, may be understood with an artificial certainty. It may be more useful at the moment to think about their similarities.” — Brian Phillips

This is what makes me think I might be able to write whatever I want for my life. Thanks, Poetry.

There are some days I am sure that I am going to die right there.

Murderboating was good. Not motorboating! I saw Abby, and everything was beautiful.

Summer is officially started!

I got about four ideas for poems last night, so I might actually have something to send to my dear Melissa. I’m feeling really good about the summer. I might try and write a memoir! Oh god.

Also, mewithoutYou’s new album comes out Tuesday. Yes!

Be well!

All my affections,


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I’ve tried to write the same poem three days in a row now. Melissa already has a packet coming my way. I wish I had a little Karla Doll that I could pull a string on the back and it would give me writing exercises.

Murderboatin’ in Philly tomorrow. Let’s hope I can sing.

All my affections,


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“I was sitting in workshop today feeling terrible, and I thought that writer’s must be masochists to put themselves through this.  But then I realized, No!  I don’t like this at all!”

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