Slice my muscles.

Break apart my joints.

Assess the liquids that

seep out.

Their color,

viscosity,

make up.

See my insides.

But please

sew me up

before you wake me,

and don't forget to

wash your hands.

I don't want to

stand up

and watch my organs

fall through my

fingers.

I would not survive

the sound of

wet noises as they

hit the floor.

I won't stop bleeding

on my own.

Dress my wounds.

Listen to my heart.

Keep an ear open

to the timbre of

my lungs.

Continue to

kill my pain.

In bed.

Dog curled against my back.

Clean sheets.

Sunlight forcing herself

on the blinds.

Blue walls create a

robins egg womb.

I still only take up half.

I wake with a start

and forget it's Saturday.

Hands hit things until

I grip my glasses,

my phone.

7:45

Don't have to be up

until 9:00

It is so me

to jump the gun.

Almost 30 years ago

I popped out 6 weeks early.

They say I was yellow.

My head looked like an orange.

I wasn't done yet,

but there I was

naked and screaming.

Not much has changed.

I am full of something.

A water balloon filled to burst.

Stretched to the limit.

Tight with pressure.

Smooth.

Heavy.

Hard to hold onto.

Translucent.

There ain't much wiggle room,

but maybe a little jiggle.

No breathing

or flailing.

No shifting in place.

The grass is bright and

whispers underneath me.

I lay on my back and try

not to think of all the bugs

on the blades beside

or the snakes that could be

hidden in the brush nearby.

If I'm consumed by clouds

up above

I cannot cry.

If I'm not careful,

a sharp pebble could

do me in.

I would burst and

let what fills me

into the soil sink.

My shell shredded.

Colorful bits of latex

littering the lawn and

maybe even the parking lot

beyond.

People are rioting.

The cops are killers.

Others are buried under

tons of rubble.

But I left you tonight.

All I can think of

is the polar bears

adrift at sea.

The ones who can't find

any ice and drown.

Global warming melted us down.

With all of this trending surrounding Game of Thrones I got to thinking about this quote from George R.R. Martin. For whatever reason it really stuck with me over the years, and I want to take a sophist's jab at deconstructing it.

“I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they're going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there's going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don't know how many branches it's going to have, they find out as it grows. And I'm much more a gardener than an architect.”

Growing up I was always instructed to use outlines, perhaps because I was mostly writing expository essays. But even on creative writing assignments teachers would emphasize the NECESSITY for an outline, for proper planning. And it's funny, my teachers used the same 'house' metaphor that Martin does here. You need to have your thesis, the entryway, and this must connect to the logical rooms that will optimize your readers' comprehension. It wouldn't make sense, for example, if you had them cross through a bathroom to enter the dining room.

Is this a weakness in education? Why would it make sense to force children into using such an organized approach, or is that a fundamentally stupid question to even ask? Seriously, I want to know what you all think (comment!).

By structuring our writing with an outline, we have more time to think about our work and make sure that our argument stays consistent throughout the piece. More time, that is, during the planning phase of the piece, when it may have not yet taken on its real form, its tone, voice, or meter in our mind's eye.

Then sometimes you finish your outline, write 75% of an essay, and realize that a different thesis seems more attractive. Was all of that effort spent outlining a waste of time, if you could have come to this realization quicker if you had just started writing? Do you see what I'm getting at? The human mind, does it favor a system of flowing until it bumps into ideas, or is an idea best approached with acuity. I suppose it depends on the person...

One advantage that Martin speaks of in his strategy: the excitement of the process. If you decide on the major plot points before you start writing the story might you might get bored with your work before finishing it. I personally agree -- especially when writing fiction -- because how can you know exactly how a character will act in major plot points if you haven't spent a sufficient amount of time with them on the page, experiencing their words and actions, developing their character?

So perhaps in the end it has more to do with form than style, more with specific personalities than a *proper* way for humans to write. And as for genre, the fantasy authors probably benefit from journeying alongside their characters and breathing the air of their worlds before deciding any outcomes, while an expository writer might die from a fit of anxiety if they just tried to start writing to see where they wound up.

Does this mean that some of us are meant to be creative writers and some logical writers? Indeed it would seem so...

Makes sense to me... What do you guys think? Do you write outlines for your creative work or do you prefer to just get the words down in your essays and then move them around in the editing process?

I'm curious because I want to optimize my own writing process and I'm guessing you do too. So let's hear it Prose!

the dark circles

that traced along freckled skin

hiding underneath my eyes

imitating lurking shadows

were never caused by lack of sleep

but hatred

I walked along a tightrope

every time you opened your lips

unwoven threads

dug into my skin

callouses piling up like blankets

I used my arms as barricades

because they were the only armor that I ever knew

because you never told me that I'm beautiful

because you never taught me

how to love myself

and even now

even after you've

used up all of your tears

to cultivate a garden

along my scars

a bundle of insecurity

is still etched into my eyes

every time I look at

myself in the mirror

a bundle of insecurity

is still carved onto my skin

a reminder of my demons

a bundle of insecurity

is still resting at the

pit of my stomach

ready to bloom

the clouds above California

have burned to waste

from their film

inward

thinking about

Hemingway while

I walk my dogs

thinking about

Ask The Dust

and Fante's

inimitable beauty

of language

and the way they both

went out

the beard ate a bullet,

and diabetes took

away the living heart

of Bandini,

took from him

his warm blood

that became mine

and many other

writers' reason

to keep pushing

the sky burning

blue

the fur of my

dogs getting warm

I stop and feel the

street and it's still

cool enough for

their little paws

and my warming

skin

watching the Sun

up high

and remembering

nothing at once

then everything at once

and across the street I watch

two yoga moms stretching

and bending

shoving it high up

from their palms

their shoulders

beneath a bright sky

devoid of clouds

ripped bare

of Bandini

and the

old man.

my dog sleeps upon another

mattress

the same music pours on and on

the same dynamics

1:52 a.m.

naked below the waist

behind this table

scar across my left finger

has sealed the gap

to a kind

of fissure

my skin pale from lack of daylight

money burning fast

hair combed back neatly

a class act all the way

outside I can hear the bar

downstairs filling with college kids

and I don’t feel bad for skipping college

or

the last half of high school

now, 14 years later from those classrooms

those kids down there could buy and sell me

within seconds

but I have a nice television

and a modern stereo

some pages published

out of Reseda

and a lust for failure

unsurpassed

by anybody.