On the periphery of vision

This is a Book Week guest post by Adam Horovitz of The Sleep of Reason.

My poetry writing life takes place in corners, in snatched moments, on the periphery of vision, in the littoral zones of the imagination. Where is not important, not physically anyway. I can write anywhere, and although a quiet room free of distractions is helpful I have been known to sit in pubs, cafés, parks, fields and buses scribbling away with a pained look on my face; wherever the need strikes.

What is important to me is where I go to think and how often I get the chance to disappear into streams of subconsciousness. For me that involves ventures alone into the landscape, be it rural or urban (though I prefer the former), denuded of all the accoutrements of modernity. Out of the window goes the mobile, the MP3 player, the works. All I take is pen and paper, just in case.

This, for me, is the luxury of poetry. Unlike the solid graft of prose, the world building, the carrying around of vast sacks of information that must be interwoven and made real whilst you sit sit sit, poetry is creative thought that seem to come from nowhere and which is built out of silence and contemplative time. Call it the Muse, Duende, whatever you will – poetry comes wriggling out of the blank spaces you allow the subconscious to fill like a hyperactive squid. It is where I am mentally that counts.

The essential careful crafting only comes after the initial rush of thought, and is done by pen until the poem is nearly ready. Then, and only then, will I make my way up to my slightly chaotic, book lined attic with a view towards the Severn, set down the talismanic fountain pen I have to use if I am to feel truly happy writing verse, and switch on the computer. A poem needs to be written long hand for many drafts – one runs the risk of thinking it finished if it is typed up too early. The attic is for work, not play.

If I have made one mistake in life it is that I chose to earn money writing journalism and PR copy in this attic and find myself too often at the computer and the mercy of social networks, which are the death of deep thought however wonderful they may be at allowing one to communicate on a wider scale. I sometimes wish I had chosen a physical, practical job – work where the mind can run riot whilst the body gets on and does. Writing for others eats into my will to write for myself. After all, there has to be some time in which to have a life that is not to do with words.

If you are thinking that I sound like someone who finds it hard to organise his time, there would certainly be an element of truth to that. It’s a dangerous sport, relying on inspiration and the willingness of people not to interrupt you when they find you mid flow in a busy café. But my goodness it can be worthwhile when it pays off.

Adam’s first volume of poetry, Turning, has just been published and is available in all good bookshops. Adam blogs at The Sleep of Reason and can also be found on Twitter.