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  • Endless Joke
    Endless Joke
    by David Antrobus

    Here's that writers' manual you were reaching and scrambling for. You know the one: filled with juicy writing tidbits and dripping with pop cultural snark and smartassery. Ew. Not an attractive look. But effective. And by the end, you'll either want to kiss me or kill me. With extreme prejudice. Go on. You know you want to.

  • Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip
    Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip
    by David Antrobus

    Please click on the above thumbnail to buy my short, intense nonfiction book featuring 9/11 and trauma. It's less than the price of a cup of coffee... and contains fewer calories. Although, unlike most caffeine boosts, it might make you cry.

  • Music Speaks
    Music Speaks
    by LB Clark

    My story "Solo" appears in this excellent music charity anthology, Music Speaks. It is an odd hybrid of the darkly comic and the eerily apocalyptic... with a musical theme. Aw, rather than me explain it, just read it. Okay, uh, please?

  • First Time Dead 3 (Volume 3)
    First Time Dead 3 (Volume 3)
    by Sybil Wilen, P. J. Ruce, Jeffrey McDonald, John Page, Susan Burdorf, Christina Gavi, David Alexander, Joanna Parypinski, Jack Flynn, Graeme Edwardson, David Antrobus, Jason Bailey, Xavier Axelson

    My story "Unquiet Slumbers" appears in the zombie anthology First Time Dead, Volume 3. It spills blood, gore and genuine tears of sorrow. Anyway, buy this stellar anthology and judge for yourself.

  • Seasons
    Seasons
    by David Antrobus, Edward Lorn, JD Mader, Jo-Anne Teal

    Four stories, four writers, four seasons. Characters broken by life, although not necessarily beaten. Are the seasons reminders of our growth or a glimpse of our slow decay?

  • Indies Unlimited: 2012 Flash Fiction Anthology
    Indies Unlimited: 2012 Flash Fiction Anthology
    Indies Unlimited

    I have two stories in this delightful compendium of every 2012 winner of their Flash Fiction Challenge—one a nasty little horror short, the other an amusing misadventure of Og the caveman, his first appearance.

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Tuesday
Jul172012

Erasure Poetry Contest

So Geist magazine right here in Vancouver is hosting a poetry contest. I've never entered a poetry contest. I rarely write poems—not because I don't like poetry, but because they are so damn hard to write well. So why did I enter this one? Well, first, for an entry fee of $20, they throw in a year's subscription to the print version of Geist, and it's a fine magazine. But also—and here's the clincher—the premise looked like a lot of fun. Basically, they provide a chunk of prose (in this case, an exerpt from the novel How Should A Person Be? by Sheila Heti) and you set about it with a metaphorical eraser, not so much rearranging the text as whittling it down to something essential. You can drop letters and join the remnants of words to make new words, but you can't move things out of sequence. In a way, this is the closest writers get to that near-cliché of discovering the form within the block of marble... although this particular block has itself been wonderfully sculpted.

So I started it (follow the link above if you want to see the original prose), got frustrated early, almost gave up, but then something started to emerge. I'm not sure whether it's good, but I did find that it became very emotional for me, at first elliptical, then sad, but later not so sad. I was surprised by the power of it—the technique not my attempt. And I wonder if something along these lines could be incorporated into a therapeutic approach.

Anyway, here is my attempt. It gets stronger as I grow into the procedure. I think the secret was to not read the original prose for sense, so as to avoid images forming early. It's titled "Can't Ouch".

I can't interest a mouse.

You doctor fire, win singing. I do too.

Come over to our nation before I stop.

Paint. Record. Feel.

Should I wonder? Help a celebrity?

No, actual hope is simple, one example of everything.

Simple, undying.

I don’t part, I don’t want.

Every heart—I am them.

Alive.

My head an image, unstartling, magnetic.

It is the quality of fame one is after here, without any of its qualities.

I shoulder my friends. An illusion, like me.

I appear to be, I appear to be, to be who I am.

A speck of dirt, alone in my contempt, my fucking… contempt.

Low-job artist, nine cents, tops.

I cannot gag, can't ouch our throat.

I breathe roughly, sucking to kiss.

Side jobs, though, rough with being girl, just rough with it. Sore with mass. Lustre time to a genius.

One good woman. Weave to man, am a golden idea mode for my mind.

Hold me.

It’s pretty.

Laugh when they won’t say what they mean.

Study them forever. Thinking: Christ, you're living in heaven.

*     *     *     *     *

also writes for Indies Unlimited and BlergPop. Be sure to check out his work there if you like what you read here.

 

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Reader Comments (2)

David, must you? Must you really? Must you really be so damn good? Must you really be so damn good at any kind of writing you attempt?

Even when you're writing by erasure (subtle hint/musical cue), you still create something brilliant. Examples? Examples you say? Well: "actual hope is simple, one example of everything'', "Every heart—I am them.' and "Study them forever. Thinking: Christ, you're living in heaven." Are those 3, enough examples for you?! Brilliant!

I confess I've downloaded the prose to see if I can even do one sentence. Such a wonderful poetic challenge, made even richer by reading about how the process took hold of you.

Really enjoyed this blog post, Mr. Antrobus. Thank you :))

July 17, 2012 | Unregistered CommenterJo-Anne Teal

And I am enjoying your response every bit as much. Somehow I knew your imagination would catch light with this.

July 17, 2012 | Registered CommenterDavid Antrobus

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