Journal XV: Current Ideas
The Writer is Tinkering
To write is a pleasure and a privilege.
Thank you to Everyone who has been reading.
Introduction
In recent writings1 from Stephen Marche, he compares the practice of writing to wandering endless chambers filled with assorted doors. We may persist to throw ourselves onto any of these doors, compelling them to open. Few may yield.
Writing affords a means of digesting reality. Whether through poems, prose or rhetoric, all writing—and perhaps all art—is a means of confronting the impression, reception, and expression of that which happens. That ought to be the only purpose of art, frankly; though, we will not here delve into anything about what art ought to be—it is best to get out of one’s own way, after all.
This Journal, titled Current Ideas, has taken me some time to work out. Rather than ramming up against a door, I set out to discuss a few of the doors currently in my chambers. This proved difficult as I struggled to decide what to say and what to leave aside. Once I started, it seemed there wasn’t much purpose in a post dictating the possible forthcoming projects here. It felt like ‘content,’ that strange commodified inversion of art: Not passion but lust. Of course, the recognition of this contradiction compelled this piece to become a ‘door,’ and I insisted upon it.
So, let us consider this Journal as a personal invocation to encourage continued efforts here2, to invite reader discourse, and to generate some small anticipation for whatever may arrive. Following is a miscellany of ideas, both ongoing and forthcoming, with some commentary. Near the end, I briefly discourse on personal writing mythology and include the ‘journals’ I kept while working on this piece.
Now, let us read on and find out what bullshit I’ve dreamt up.
The Distended Orthonym
In the past few years, I have developed several worlds. The most recent of these is a meta distended from Will Edgcomb’s ‘personal mythology’: It is the place you occupy now, Sweet Reader. It is a human space, gangly like an overgrown tomato plant. It is The Distended Orthonym, and identity languishes here on hot rocks under the sun. We dissect ourselves and overcome whatever we may find, doing our work and moving on.
For transparency, this space practices heteronymic writing—something formerly foreign to Will Edgcomb and now necessary for his expression. Thus, there are several authors practicing here under one hand. These heteronyms are a means of self-exploration: Writing under multiple identities permits us to take ourselves less serious, loosing the fetters of sensibility. Saying this, you should accept the burden of taking us less serious also. Nothing is permanent.
We don’t make an effort to alter styles amongst our heteronyms. They do each tend to fall to their own preferred subjects3 and word-use and diction—and case sensitivity4. They have their own lives, their own personas, their own histories. We are coming to know them as you are (or slightly before). As the titular Orthonym, I hope to offer a steadfast counterbalance to the slurry of disparate voicing they offer. Of course, in this roll, I also contend with the architecture of our chief inventor/navigator, Will Edgcomb, and so my pieces may sometimes be indicative of the turmoil of a lived life.5 This is the clever intention of our publication’s title: The Distended Orthonym. We are not so much a thing alone or a multitude as a swelling of disparate shapes and noises. These shapes and noises have names. I am their voice.
It is best to launch oneself into our oeuvre of sentimental nonsense. I would start here. Or, here.
Vicious, Legendary
The door I have titled Vicious, Legendary houses an old idea from my early forays into writing.6 It follows the demigod monarch of a dying land that has been ravaged by a clandestine living magic known as the Elderkraft. The monarch, deposed of her throne, grapples with her fate and faith amidst the chaos of the End Days.
Over past summers (and winters), I began developing the first fragments of Vicious, Legendary, starting with a few poems that will form the basis for the lore and legend of the world (which I have named Miasm). Later (this past year), we began a short story set (under Ser Templeton’s heavy hand7), following the Hero some time after they have acquired the sentient blade Maq'tub. This is a continuing effort, with two of the six short stories now released and the third pending (Templeton has been busying itself with Poetry and Philosophy and is arrogant8). I hope to have the remainder of this first ‘cycle’ published here by the Summer; then, who knows what work we may accomplish there.
I am excited to continue exploring Miasm and to learn of its queer ways. Vicious, Legendary is a project I’ve decided to take in stride. It is a living entity, subject to change even after publication (keen readers may already find differences). I do intend to edit the two stories that are currently available before the third is released. This process is what my heteronyms—and by extension, I—obliquely refer to as the avant gauche—the freedom of awkwardness. This practice, essentially of a lack of concern for perfection9, has been deeply fulfilling to my habit (the writing habit, not the others ones).
For Vicious, Legendary, I intend to have a series of ‘cycles,’ mainly short stories, with some poetry interspersed. Eventually, there may be a novel, but I am not certain where the tale of Verveine may lead in a long form. It worries me. They are a powerful monarch, and I often feel I am at their whim: They are dictating their tale to us and we have little control (hence the deeply delayed release of The Forgotten God).
The Cosmic Fable; or, Carnal Offspring
The ‘Cosmic Fable’ has tugged at me since its inception three or four years ago. Truly, it has tugged relentlessly. I consider it daily. The first instalment of this ‘Fable’ follows the daughter of a powerful wizard who forges a journey of self-discovery as she adventures through ‘otherworldly’ planes. It sounds basic, but only because I am leaving it basic.10 This first instalment would be titled Carnal Offspring.
This story has me excited not only for the idea of the narrative but for the world(s) that I will inhabit while writing it. The scope is fairly immense, daunting, and perhaps a scale beyond my current ability (this has never stopped us before, only delayed us). My vision incorporates a sweeping epic of fantasy that draws both on original mythology and a significant amount of Western mythologies11 to create a unique and provocative ‘legend’. Everything about this idea excites me except for its production, which terrifies me.
Carnal Offspring will be framed as Portal story (a motif of the genre) whereby Earth (not unlike our Earth12) is the ‘otherworld’ encountered by the protagonist, Poletta. The course of the novel’s events would take us to Hell (my remix), multiple historical periods on Earth (some speculative), and perhaps even to the End of Time13. It’s a whacky idea.
Stay tuned.
The Katabasis Cycle; and, The Damned
Distended in part from the aforementioned worlds and also from independent works is the notion of a continuum I’ve referred to as The Katabasis Cycle. This (in theory) comprises (prepare for convolution) a whole sequence from Carnal Offspring14; a cycle of stories from Vicious, Legendary15; an unfinished novel titled The Damned; a retelling of Orphic mythology tentatively titled A Thracian Tale, and assorted personal writings regarding beliefs, opinions, or autobiography. This is a somewhat nebulous idea but I am compelled to mention it here.
Of these, The Damned was a novel I began in 2019 and one I have reconsidered often these past few months. Framed as an interpretation of Dante’s Inferno, the novel would have seen the protagonist visiting a sort of personal hell occupied by various friends, fiends and agonizers. I accomplished 44,000 words before abandoning the idea—mainly due to life events and self-doubt. I intended to resume it in late 2021 but life was interrupted again. I have never read through what was written. I remember experimenting with phrasing a lot, and having some good-but-whack dialogue. It’s likely a self-indulgent work, deeply influenced by my perceptions at the time. I would be curious to revisit the writing and see what I may resurrect.
Primitive Ends
This is my most recent novel idea and one that has stewed incessantly since the notion first struck me last summer (2024). The concept is frank: a solarpunk noir.
I only have a few notes for it, including these ‘opening lines’:
Feathers, bones, and a bloody puddle—all that remains of the small hen named Constant Divine Revelation, business partner of the young wind farmer, Penelope Revelation. She (the hen) was found last night at 11:41pm on Sameday the 26th of the Ninth Moon in the Solar Cycle. It is almost without question that this is a homicide. No meat remains.
It is hot now at noon and I cannot dispel the fat violent scent of Constant’s swollen viscera heating up in the morning sun. I hate animal cases. I fucking hate them.
Let me know if I should continue.
The Constant Ephemera
I do not know how to refer to my body of poetry by any other name than this.16
Though I deign to be known as a poet17, I cannot escape the escape that poetry loans me. It is an excellent form of expression—a necessary balm. I have a lot of poems; indeed, I do not even know how many—perhaps two-hundred or more.
For the past year, I have been posting most new poetry directly to Substack. This has been a lovely practice. Lately, I’ve leaned toward shoring smaller poems to ‘collections’ while releasing longer poetry as their own ‘works’. Writing longer forms is something I hadn’t explored much in poetry before last year. It’s been an engaging and occasionally challenging practice—crafting those poems has often been fun. We try to have fun these days.
Aside from what may be found here, I also have two unpublished collections of poetry titled Skipping Stones and Wolf: Collected Poetry of the 20s18. I have considered putting the entirety of these collections up here for free.
Let me know if you’d be interested in that.
Notes On My Writing: Style, Motif, and Conception
Style
How would I begin to describe my style? Degenerate, nonsensical, environmental, pretentious, self-aware, horrendous, unseemly, beautiful, radical, unconventional, saturated, disaffected, stagnant, unruly, disquieting, loud, unpracticed, automatic, apathetic, generous, ingenious, distracted, post-modern, post-post-modern, avant gauche, post-COVID, coastal, pastoral, delusional, illusional, expository, exploiting, searing, endearing, queer, understated, academic, contradictory, content, covert, allusive, elusive, etc.
Something like that. I use words. I play with them. I make them kiss. Effects are made. You’re turned on. Maybe you’re not. You’re scared. Maybe you are. You’re bored. Maybe. Things happen. There is movement. My style is That Next Thing, Over There.
Let’s move on.
Motif
Love is important. So is war. Contention, contradiction. I enjoy diametric forces hopelessly intertwined (who doesn’t?). I don’t like black and white narratives. I like the weird and personal. I like moral irreverence and I like Good But Complicated People.
Lurid images are pleasant and pleasant images are fair. I tend toward the symbolic but do not heed symbols. I tend toward idealism but cannot forsake the material. Contradictions, all the way down.
Many of my stories explicitly utilize violence. This is NOT for the sake of violence. I genuinely try to ensure the violence depicted in my work supports the story or develops the characters involved. Violence for the sake of violence is its own artistic expression but it is not one that interests me.
I’m fond of allusion, whether through framing or direct reference. I steal phrasing from dead people sometimes.19 I let their dead words sift my living ones. I have deep reverence for those who came before and for the efforts they made.
Nature is a frequent collaborator also. The motif of ecological sensibility has become more prevalent in the past year or so. So has madness and identity and contradiction.
Contradiction, of course, is the motif. Always.
Conception
All my ideas are gifted to me by the Gods or by Nature. There is no Talent. I killed him. His corpse rots in my garden. I don’t even know where he fell. Vines covered him over.
I pace a lot, and think. I think a lot in the shower. I think a lot when I go for walks in the woods. I don’t know where ideas originate. They arrive here.20 Sometimes they are useful. Sometimes they are not. I endeavour on the useful ones. Sometimes a useless one slips in. We do our best.
Influence is key. I violate influence incessantly. Good artists steal and use words like ‘interpretation’ to appear as geniuses. There is no genius, only focus and persistence. We’re trying to get the best of both.
Influence calls to mind the discredit of AI due to the regurgitation of remixed learned inputs. Speaking of—
A Note on AI (LLMs)
I do not utilize LLMs in the production of my writing. I occasionally use it in post-production as a reflective ‘conceptual sparring partner’ by which I may get a sense for a reader’s impression. This practice was prompted by a curiosity in the technology and a sense of duty (as a civilian) to understand its capabilities.
When I have used LLMs in post-production, I have let them read the work and then provide ‘analysis’ or a ‘critique.’ In these responses, I look for interpretations that align with my intentions for the piece. I do not take advice for enhancing these intentions or rewordings for ‘optimized’ meaning.
If anyone has any questions about this, then I would be happy to discuss them.
Notes on My Life
Mid-January 202521
I didn’t write for a while. I didn’t write much at all during a period of relentless ideas. I spent most of my early twenties doodling with poetry and mocking prose and then I dried up for a Dark Age without much wordplay. Now, I write almost daily. More than ever, perhaps. Over the past year or so, I have gradually found my way back into the endless chambers again.
This is good.
I have finally overcome the cold that began in our last post. Ridiculous, exhausting. These past weeks, I’ve longed for Spring. Winter is a sanitizing season. It is pleasant, stagnant but solitary. Spring demands awareness. I miss colour.
Publishing has been sparse here, as the colour. It is not due to the emotional discursion of my last entries; rather, I have several long-form posts juggling in my drafts now. I continue to juggle them and each grows with every pass. I am an abundance without finish. Such is the way of things. With some luck, I will complete them all around the same time and have a host of new inventions for Spring.
30 January 2025
The month has been stale and ordinary. I’ve had fun with siblings, nephews, friends. Winter has small human amusements. We find amusements everywhere.
Work has been busy. So busy. I have not written much due to exhaustion from work and illness. What I have worked on mainly comprises poetry. I have not committed myself to any project yet. Perhaps this is why The Forgotten God remains unfinished.
Eager for spring, but eager for the new month also. February is often more hazy than January but it is never unexciting. February is Deep Winter. All things deep bring relief.
I fear for those south of me. The Canadian Border suddenly matters again. National identity matters. The next three months will be a tempest of media. I have been drifting through it already and trying to find some Balance between it all.
I do not think I will be deeply productive in writing this year. I think I will be productive elsewhere, and that I will write about it often. I do not think I will accomplish a Major Work this year, unless by the grace of Nature I manage to donate great effort to Carnal Offspring or Primitive Ends. Nonetheless, I will be publishing plenty of poetry here and the sorts of personal writings you’ve seen in Journal VIII & Journal XII. I cannot speak for what these other heathens (heteronyms) may proffer.
Substack is an interesting space because it is implicit social media but explicit personal media. There’s a lot of room for expression here—perhaps more than other popular social spaces. I wonder how much to commit to the friendliness of expression here. It is a compelling operation.
I will take the opportunity to thank those ‘Sweet Readers’ who have followed my expression. Your patronage is appreciated. I received my first paid subscriber last week and realized it was the first time I had ever been paid for writing. So, thanks.
03 February 2025
Writing this has been an actual trial in self-confidence and patience. I don’t know why beyond the lack of satisfaction I feel with the piece overall. It offers nothing artistically and feels more like a teaser for genuine work than a novel effort. Still, I wanted to discuss some forthcoming ambitions and to have a tease at some of the doors I’ve been rattling against. It seems only suiting that I’d be dissatisfied with the whole process—it almost redeems us.
I am writing this in the afternoon on the first Monday following the US president’s decision to enact tariffs against my country. Regardless of the quality of this Journal entry, to publish or not to publish could never hold a flame to the vapid decision-making of that high office. Perhaps the solution to border struggles is a dismantling of borders.
Enough of that here, though. I’ve another place for such discussions.
The difficult thing about my work/life balance lately has been conserving mental energy throughout my workday so I can afford to spare some for writing in the evening. The past month has seen much of my writing transpire over the weekends—work has been a tedious endeavour since the year began. What is essential to me is maintaining clarity so that I am not lazy when I write. The only thing subjectively worse than ‘bad’ writing is lazy ‘good’ writing. At least ‘bad’ writers are ignorant.
07 February 2025
The week has been long and I am tired. Many have joked, what a year. It’s cute. I think there is a dark cloud over everyone these days. We’ve given it different names. Fascism, winter, burnout, climate anxiety, etc. I see a dark cloud and hope for a bit of rain. I miss the rain.
When I started writing this piece, I thought it would be quite straightforward, but instead I have paced endlessly around these words and wondered at their purpose. I don’t like this post. I don’t know why. I love my ideas and I enjoy sharing my ideas, even when my description falls flat our withholds what may conjure more interest.
14 February 2025
I am ill again, ironically. My first entry above discusses how I have overcome illness. Yet, it finds me again like an obnoxious lover. Things fall apart.
Upon reconsideration, I don’t mind this piece so much. I take myself too serious sometimes. It’s kinda charming and silly and it loosens the burden of idea. I’m not sure how, but it feels nice.
There is more I could have included above, but this piece now exceeds 3000 words and ought to be let go—the readership will be scant anyway, and so none of it matters right now. No one expects anything. Why was I so hard on myself?
It’s an awkward time in the world for artists. It is a struggle enough to have a voice; using it is another matter. I have always enjoyed light verse and silly stories but I wonder these past years if there’s more I could be doing with ‘serious’ essays or stories or poems. They’re exhausting, though. Fulfilling, but exhausting.
The writing of this piece has prompted a lot of consideration for my self-conception as an artist and how even now to consider oneself an artist feels bloated. I am human and I write and these two things are the same. What is an artist, anyway? The audience can decide. I just want to trepan the ideas. They meander and fold and cause great turmoil. Therefore, let us use the awen of this piece to compel action and deep consideration for our writings going forward.
Let us get out of our own way.
Wow, would you look at the time. It’s already evening and we’ve gotta publish this22. Hope you all stay safe out there. Happy Valentine’s Day.
9781771965163 — it’s excellent; worth reading; BUY LOCAL.
Or elsewhere, if I one day leave Substack and build my own online fortress. I’ve been getting into tech repair (a topic that warrants its own Journal) and cyber what-not lately. Who knows what will happen?
Or, sometimes, lack thereof. — Ser Templeton Esq.
hey now, i make Good Word do Pretty — wb
“I know who I am! I’m a dude playin’ a dude, disguised as another dude.”
The literal origin is an idea I had around the age of 16-17. Those notes were very different from the current incarnation of the tale.
WTF dude. — Ser Templeton Esq.
DUDE wtf.
SUCH a simplification. It is quickly becoming a whole philosophical method for engaging with craft. Journal XXI is intended to discuss it in greater depth.
The details of the idea overwhelm me.
I so dearly wish to incorporate Eastern mythologies and—in defiance of the term Western, the mythologies of Native Peoples on our Earth—but we will see what I manage to organize in the writing of the thing.
In fact, our Earth.
Or, was it the Beginning? None remain who can tell us.
Ostensibly, the entire Cosmic Fable, depending on how carried away we become.
Likely titled The Underneath Cycle.
Perhaps the name of a later portion of the Cosmic Fable, also.
Nothing against the honorary title of Poet; however, I never set out to be one and so it is always alarming when others bestow the title. (I have been to Some this way.)
Worth mentioning that all my poetry on Substack would fall into the latter collection, as I have not yet seen the poetry of the 30s.
For transparency, you will often see this in my poetry in phrasing like Something there is (Frost) and inversions of various lines from Keats or Whitman (an example fails me now). Language strikes me and I sometimes regurgitate what I have ingested. 12024 HE is particularly rife with reference and allusion. Give it a read!
Gestures broadly.
This entry comprises paragraphs cut during editing of the Introduction.
If you’re reading anytime after 14 February 2025, then know that I had scheduled the post to release at 8pm on that date, so this line reads as terribly clever and cute. I hope the Future is a bright place for you, Sweet Reader.