I’ve heard it said before that a first time writer will sometimes see their own experiences unintentionally coming through in their work, so that it ends up becoming a biography of sorts, or even worse, a journal or emotion dumpster. I guess it was kind of the other way round for me – my first work was too absurd to be real life and in a way, was a form of artistic escapism. Makes sense, since I do spend a good 60% of my day in my own head.
Recently though, I’ve been doing a lot more outpouring as a result of inward analysis. I’ve tried to do it as more of an exploration, rather than a pretentious soul-cleansing that really wouldn’t benefit anyone other than myself. After all, my prime motivation as a writer is to have an audience. My forthcoming poems focus on self-exploration, especially Belemnite Soup, coming out in Inclement over the summer, and a few more on understanding oneself, like in a selection to appear in Sarasvati, over July/August.
As Socrates so aptly put it: the unexamined life is not worth living. Too true!
