Manic Frustration “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

A new year means more writing and much more reading. Last year, I squeezed in 32 books. I even had time to review some of them on Goodreads. That site has been extraordinarily helpful with finding new reading material. Books I never would have found have been suggested to me or I've found them by chance. My "to read" list grows by the day. Below is what I devoured in 2012 with links to reviews, if I happened to write one, and where you can pick it up.

Work days have been slow. Excruciatingly so. I've found myself reading random snippets of news. Searching unknown poets. Researching odd topics. Today, I found myself reading children's stories from an old book on Google books.

I've never got into "creating" found poetry. To me, found poetry just seems to be the art of extreme editing rather than writing. Chopping away every ounce of fat from the words of previous writers to boil down the story into a pure, concise form. For this, though, it seems useful. One thing I've always had trouble with, and I'm sure most writers do, is knowing when to cut the fat from your work. Our words are our children and butchering them is never easy.

Below are a few "found" poems from the day's boredom.

"Insomnia" artist unknown from flickr.com

Insomnia. For a year, now, I've become rather familiar with this bastard companion. I've spent whole nights lying awake, turning from side to side in a desperate effort to sleep. Books move from my nightstand, to my hand and back again. Sometimes the pen will find a way to scrawl words in that half awake, half mindless state. So close to sleep, yet unattainable.

The whole world seems to make its way through my thoughts while I lie there, eyes wide, staring into nothing. And all the words I searched for earlier in the evening come spewing forth. All I want to do is sleep. I don't want to write the poem. But my brain has other plans.

When I was young, I can remember lying awake for hours constructing richly detailed stories in the darkness. High-speed car races twisting around curves, tires screeching. White knuckled and high on adrenaline. Hitting home runs out of Fenway or Yankee stadium along greats like Mickey. Getting the girl who sauntered down the halls of my high school, unattainable to me for whatever reason. Eventually, I'd sink into the mattress wrapped in a world of ethereal thoughts.

tumblr.com

That, however, was childhood. When energy was abundant and worries were few. Now, instead of concocting  fiction, I wrestle with reality. Sometimes the reality seems more unbelievable than the fiction.

What really has me worried is wondering whether or not this is simply an unfortunate phase or if this will continue on throughout the rest of my days. I suppose, either way, it's something I've got to face. On that same thought, it may be a way for my own restless mind to force me to confront those things I'd rather not.

Dear sleep, bring on the dreaming.


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If anyone happens to know the artist of the first photo,
please let me know in the comments.

If only this were my home.

The old look was growing stale. It was time to freshen up the place a bit. New year, new writing, new things to look at. Maybe it will make me come back here more often to give the few who read this something more to actually read.

Speaking of reading, today I read an article in USA Today about the future of independent and small bookstores in an age where print seems to be slowly creeping towards extinction. It's something I've thought about ever since interning with a newspaper and seeing staff drop like flies as it (as well as the smaller, surrounding papers in the area) was bought up by a larger company.

Personally, I haven't thought much of e-readers or digital books since their appearance. I've always liked having an actual book in my hand. Feeling the cover, the pages and smelling the pulp. That satisfying feeling you get when you open a new book for the first time. You don't get that warm feeling with sterile, cold electronics. Even with newspapers, I prefer to have the actual paper in my hands despite the ink rubbing off.

But, maybe I'm just old enough to be on the cusp of that generational gap. I remember the time before the internet. It's true. We even went outside to play, as children. The old ways still appeal to me and hold a certain connection. I still listen to records and use a typewriter. Then again, I have an mp3 player and I'm writing this on a PC for the internet.

Regardless of the growing popularity of digital books, print will never die out completely. When discussing this thought with friends, one mentioned that if digital music didn't kill the recording industry and CDs, then e-readers will not kill print. He has a very valid point. There will always be people like me who enjoy stacking their shelves full of books. Or, at least there will be until I'm six feet under. And no one is going to burn the books that are here...unless Bradbury was on to something.

So, let the people have their e-readers and their mega-bookstores filled with obnoxiously loud coffee grinders and Twilight posters. I'll just sit back and enjoy cracking open one of the many books sitting on my shelf. Or, browsing through the nook of used and antique books at my local antique shop. At least I won't have to worry about the text being garbled upon opening the book. Unless the editor was asleep...then there could be some problems.

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