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The writers, prizefighters & caffeine inspired all-nighters ning site has been moved to a new address and brand new bells and whistles to keep everyone’s writing experience ticking along nicely.

I saw this in my news feed and I thought it was interesting. I’ve edited the questions because they lean toward poetry too much. I’m a poet first but storytelling should be covered as well.

1) What advice would you give a new writer?

I always think that whenever a writer talks about practices that work for them they should preface it by saying these are the tools I use, but they are not the only tools in the toolbox – go out there and find what works for you and never be a slave to a particular way of doing something; the whole thing about learning is that you have to be open to change.

2) Self-Publish or via an agent?

Get the work out there – that’s the most important thing. Why trust someone else’s judgement over your own when it all boils down to personal taste at the end of the day.

3) Why do you write?

Because I enjoy it – tortured geniuses can go fuck themselves.

4) What other creative activities do you partake in?

Fucking, painting.

5) How do you dance with writers block?

Writer’s block is an excuse for lazy people.

6) Haiku love em or hate em?

Haikus are fine – haiku nazis can kiss my arse.

7) What do you wear when you write?

Clothes and a smug expression.

Your favourite word is?

Paradiastole.

9) What three habits have made you a better writer?

Writing, reading, listening.

10) When you cannot write what do you do?

Sleep.

11) What is your favourite word?

Do you have a ten second memory span or something?

12) Free-form or traditional structures?

Like they are mutually exclusive – anyone hung up on this question should go and join the lit-crit circle jerkers.

13) What is your thought on rhymes/rhyming?

That they rhyme.

13b) Fiction or non-fiction?

They each serve their purpose.

14) How do you get motivated?

There is no getting; I am always there; always working.

15) Where do you find inspiration?

This thing called life.

16) Pen, Pencil or Computer?

Whatever is to hand – I am a writer and they are all useful tools which all affect the way you write, so you can get different results from different practices.

17) What makes a good poem good?

It depends – different things are required of different forms of poetry. It has to say something though – technical brilliance wih no balls makes for meringue poetry.

17b) Story?

Again – a story needs balls over and above technical brilliance, if it has no soul then who cares?

18) Do you revise and edit or give up?

Prose I edit, poetry I don’t, except for typos and reformatting for the published page.

19) Use the following words in a sentence azure, tinged and sublime.

her azure tinged eyes were sublime.

20) Do you like background noise when you write?

who can avoid it?

21) Your ideal place to write is?

somewhere with writing implements

22) What is the most overused cliché?

That you were born with a pen in your hands. Think of your poor mother.

23) Your preference is Love Poems or Lust Poems?

lusty love poems

24) Is there really a difference?

If you agree with there being one

25) Who is your favourite foreign language poet?

Miroslav Holub

26) What is your favourite escape from reality?

Reality TV.

27) What art form besides writing gets you going?

Living.

28) How do you know when a poem is finished?

When the last line is written

29) Your favourite quote about writing is?

“Writer’s block? I’ve heard of this. This is when a writer cannot write, yes? Then that person isn’t a writer anymore. I’m sorry, but the job is getting up in the fucking morning and writing for a living.”
— Warren Ellis

30) Who is your favourite published poet?

T. S. Eliot

31) What 5 people (living or dead) would you invite over for dinner and why?

William Burroughs, Warren Ellis, Stephen Hawking, Egon Schiele and Dorothy Parker.

32) Does writing stand a chance in this technologically based society?

there’s a little thing called kindle and this thing called the internet which has words on it

33) How long have you been writing?

30 Years.

34) How do you decide what to title to give your poems

some times the title comes first or some times it’s a riff on a line in the poem

35) What was the subject of your very first poem?

the angel of the lord appearing to the shepherds

36) How often do you write daily, weekly monthly or?

Every day.

37) Poe, Kafka, Eliot or Tagore?

Kafka.

38) What is your favourite Dr. Seuss story?

The Cat In The Hat.

39) The best movie ever made about a writer is?

Wonder boys or Freedom Writers.

40) Does alcohol ever help you along the writing process?

Once but no more.

41) What one bad habit do you have when it comes to writing?

Running too many projects at the same time?

42) Spell check is good or evil?

Variable depending on the program.

43) What is your favourite literary magazine?

Paris Review

44) Your favourite time of day to write is?

Whenever I can.

45) The understanding of what one feeling makes or breaks a writer?

Love.

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I take a cold hard look at the
Bathroom Sink. My golden blood
Seeping out. Dripping gently from my wrist.
The weight of the paper in my hands,
I could not stray from answering the
Hundreds of life-changing questions.
Consuming. So small yet worth so much.

Pierce my heart with curves and smiles,
Tangle me up, swallow me whole.
Longing for her, too much. She was taken.
Lifting the weight of the crate
Pushing myself to earn the monetary goal;
Stress and workload for so little.
No wonder my wrists drip this day.

I wait for the brown envelope to come,
Staring endlessly, I needed to know.
The results to my life, all at once.
Snap. My mind then split. I understood.
The sharp blade in my hand.
Twisting and turning as I toyed with death.

My wrists opened up.
The sink filled with blood.
I fainted and died.
The brown envelope came,
My mum wept her eyes;

Nothing but those deadly A star marks.

Check out more of John Morris’s work here

Fat rhododendron leaves wearing wet raindrops, supporting capes neath yellow buds. Some frost tinged brown dead edges, some yellowed rust dotted patterns tell of Winter’s malice. The green moss below a lighter hue with crocus leaves in wet imitation of deep soft grass, A low bushy conifer provides shelter from errant breezes. The field stone retaining wall has its coat of green
living like paint on rougher surfaces. None of theses greens are the same hue
and all blend together to accent the browns and grays of branches in all their twistery. The wet mud sided road with wind swept sand patterns and puddles reflecting the neighbors’ spring green lawn, is agleam with almost sunlight as the day attempts to brighten.

hello me

so this is self-discovery

standing between bed

and mirror

reluctant to witness

yet being a captive audience

to relief

and issues unravelling

all over again

stuffed into some cupboard

way in the back

only to fall out and bury me

in crap

and childhood was forgiven

flaws dismissed

in that moment

frustration overrode

confusion dispelled

internal workings revealed

astonished

as everything was confirmed

and completeness overwhelmed

Vaseline

smears genders

into insignificance

when honesty juts out

like an exclamation

like a pointing finger

like a directing arrow

like instinct re-found

t i g h t e n

the buckles

while

what has always been

introduces me

to myself

check out more of c boylan’s work here http://wherenothingissacred.wordpress.com/ and keep your eye out for more news on her forthcoming book of poetry

Silly gism trix are for kids
and my UNIVERSAL
LOVER
has unlocked my monkey
cage
and set the devils
in my head
Spinning right round
right round
write it down
I have followed the thread
the magic carpet ride
wombs
of your crotch
rocket
back into the OHM of
MOI-
say ahh I got your
7-11 baby
coffee an’ smokes
ain’t no joke when the mirrors
are cracking uh-oh
13 black cats crossed our path
run over by RVR freight train to NYC
and cannibalism causes mad cow disease
as cellphonism makes me dizzy
with brain dissolve
but literally on my infinity ride
from Sally up in the sky
blown up in space
bet that fucked up her
elementary class
and recycled back to teach
that us wee tiny white folks
can leap frogs in the canopy
I see
you and me
making babies
now or later or forever-
You rock my boat from the cradle to
the grave
Mother Hen is back again
now drink my milk and
lick my feet because I said say-
I got the wounds of surgery
but no suffering Buddhas
for Sid Vicious is back too
and the Chelsea Hotel is where
the drugs took his life and I got my
own brain swell that still
speaks to me in Shakespearean words of mystery-Scooby Dooby Doo
where have you been, to lucky Jupiter
you Warlock
fuck me in the head
and call me dead, dead but
oops she has returned to UNITE with
the BEAUTY and SUBLIME
and riddle and rhyme
are on my mind
have gotten roped, waxed, poeified
tippled, toiled and troubled over sweat, heat hard
work, FILM NOIR and winter-worn leather
whips and chains may break my bones
and that still sounds pretty
fucking good to me
William Wordsworth you too may say
WE ARE SEVEN – Lucky to be Alive
and Dead Again
Turn your gum and mugs
upside down ‘cuz Mama Chaos
has returned to miracle the monsoon
and stake the Tell-Tale Heart of the
Museum of Modern History
and the MOMA sucks
the God of Ogun can kiss my ass too
‘cuz my Divinity will stills
Love Me, Kill Me, either way
Baby, Baby, Babies…
WE inherit the EARTH and
I am stuck to you like
Krazy Glue.

© 2008 Siddartha Beth Pierce

Check out some more great work from Siddartha Beth Pierce at http://www.ubiquitygallery.com/

I appreciate you lettin me stay here
It bein such short notice and all
I won’t be any trouble
Just waiting for the apartment to call

Oh, you have a son
He’s two now?
No, you just forgot to mention is all
Babysit?
I don’t… I mean it’s been
a while since I filled an order that tall

So that’s your man
The mechanic dude
With the real heavy southern drawl
Looked at me?
What? Why would he?
No, I’m sure he didn’t, not that I recall

That beast in the back
You called it a dog?
When I jumped the gate for your young’un’s ball
I almost got mauled
And that ruckus upstairs
What’s goin on up there?
Sounds like y’all are havin a brawl

Did I push shorty down?
I don’t fight with children
Dude, reasonable people would call that a fall
If he whined a little less…
Huh, what’s that?
Oh, yes.  I’ve got some ice for his chest
Step to me again and shorty’s gonna meet the wall

Two more days in this craze? Please lady no way!
You hear that screamin down the hall?
That’s little lord pissy pants
Who whines until you think he can’t
Then screams and screams and whines again
Mommy’s perfect little doll

Um, why’d I pack my stuff
No, I don’t mind the bus
And I appreciate the burden I put on y’all
But it’s time for me to leave
Really, please, no sympathy
Just be sure to take those bullets out of her pistol

So, last night seemed something different – there was definitely a special vibe in the air – the feeling of things clicking into place. Everyone who was there was where they were meant to be – it was a feeling that was vocalised more than once. There was definitely an energy in that room.

As is the way with these things the interludes of talking were as enjoyable, and in their own way as poetic, as the poetry, readings, and music that filled the night.

Mona read from her collections of poems and the sestina which was written as part of exercise we all did at one of the earlier evenings, really grooving and feeling it. Tony played some music, read extracts from the books he is writing, and the Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery (which is a book everyone should hunt down) giving beautiful and insightful glimpses into the workings of his own mind and that of mankind at large. Wendy read poems from her collection and some newer uncollected work and took us from the subatomic to the macrocosmic in a sweeping lyrical movement. I read some things I wrote on the spot and also some things I have had for a while that are waiting to be collected. Justin gave us politics and religion in a passionate call to wake up and smell the coffee. Candace delivered her words from inside a wonderfully decorated book with enough feeling to engulf the whole room.

Everyone was positive, receptive and passionate about theirs and each others work – you could power a country with the energy we packed into the place last night. More ideas, more love and more energy than you have any right to hope for.

If you weren’t there then you seriously missed out and you need to make sure you are there next time.