Journal XVII: The Toolbox

The Writer is Crafty

That I encountered Note after Note on this site disparaging
‘writers writing about writing’ did not encourage me to finish this piece.
Nonetheless, here’s some writing about writing.

Introduction

In Stephen King’s On Writing, the author dedicates the opening of his chapter “Toolbox” to discussing his uncle’s large heavy handmade toolbox. When his uncle needs to fix anything, he carries the whole toolbox with him. The young King inquires about this habit and his uncle tells him that it is better to bring the whole box in case other tools are needed, rather than to just bring the one tool deemed necessary and risk ill preparation. The story is used by King to assert that a writer must always be prepared: They must have their whole toolbox with them always.¹

This Journal is about my toolbox, which I have built over many years. It is a standard case (let’s imagine it a beauteous shade of emerald) of several drawers (we’ll count them as we write them) with golden knobs—and we must reckon that it’s maliciously well-kept despite ever-shifting assortments within². We must recall as we prepare to practice:

It is good in all things to be diligent and recursive.
We fail in this often, and that is not only fine but natural.

Lately, I have endeavoured to be not only introspective but retrospective—recursive—in my thought and practice. I am not good at this. Consider the following a practice for us; for, it is good for the writer to write about writing. Just about every writer I have ever read has some piece dedicated to their process, their craft, or their philosophy regarding the practice of setting meaning to a thing. King’s On Writing is only one of his efforts on the subject. Ursula K. Le Guin has several writings on the matter. Gene Wolfe dissected his own works in essays. Orwell and Oliver both have works dedicated to the effort of political writing and poetry, respectively. Among my favourites that I’ve read is Ray Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing—a work that is as much a practical guide for creativity and good living as it is about writing.³

Considering it’s a well enough practice for all those folks, I figure I’m allowed to toss my hat into the ring for a moment—for a cursory glance. What I write here is not definitive. Each inventor must take it upon themselves to uncover their toolbox in their unfolding process. What I write here will offer a guiding post, a finger pointing at the moon. It is the duty of the reader to take what is proffered—this uncarved block⁴—and to make it their own.

Introduction aside, let us invoke a thing: What is in this writer’s toolbox?

1. Vocabulary

Words comprise the entire first shelf of my toolbox and may extend even to the stickers I have used to decorate the box—words like quite, nice, rather, lovely, et al. I adore certain words, as all writers must, but keep a hefty reserve of vernacular available at all times. I often consider the Twain quotation:

“Well, also he will notice in the course of time, as his reading goes on, that the difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—’tis the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.”

When I specify Vocabulary, what I mean is mere language: The fundamental building block of a meaning-maker. The function of writing is to make meaning. My toolbox is geared toward writing but my top drawer vocabulary is not confined to this alone. My most valuable and ubiquitous tools must be top-drawer stuff. This is words, words, words. The production of a deliberate vocabulary is useful not only in writing, but in all efforts at making meaning.⁵

How do we develop vocabulary?⁶ The dictionary, books, etc. Why download apps that give you only a new word each day when you can pick up an old book and find a dozen words you’ve never heard in an afternoon? There are writers whose gift of gab is such that they weave a plethora of unknown language into their paragraphs, all the while making the reader feel as though these foreign entanglements of the alphabet were safety all along. Nabokov is good at this—as are most poets like Whitman, Frost, and Plath. Joyce is infamously proficient with language—even beyond English; though, not as Nabokov, who translated much of his own work into Russian, French and English.⁷ Lovecraft, too, is well-known for his broad vernacular. I use the word vernacular here because I do not want to suggest that a broad vocabulary is an odd or uncommon thing. To writers, words are each their own work of art. Our vernacular—our common language—is every word we know. Whether others find terms like excoriation or paraphilia—or even lepidopteran—egregious is not our problem; such persons are living only half a life in the mother tongue.

Of course, one must be wary using flowery language. It may alienate the reader if used brusquely, inappropriately, or indiscriminately (I have been accused of all three). Yet—and again—this is the problem of others. The writer is comfortable—quite comfortable—in their top-shelf vernacular. King says:

“The Grapes of Wrath is, of course, a fine novel. I believe that Blood Meridian is another, although there are great whacks of it that I don’t fully understand. What of that? I can’t decipher the words to many of the popular songs I love, either.”

I was once called out by my cousin for using the adjective lepidopteran to describe a moth.⁸ You can’t win ‘em all. It is important to explore language, and I think a concern for the reader’s resistance to verbosity is a hindrance to expression. Castration is an editor’s job. The writer’s job is to flirt with the vertices of meaning. This sometimes requires long and girthy words that provoke anxiety. It’s okay. Be gentle. Nothing there is that cannot be changed.

2. Grammar

King keeps his grammar with his vocabulary and I think that is fine but utterly unsuitable for my sensibilities. Grammar belongs in the second drawer—a drawer that has dividers and pockets and magnets for all the little foibles of grammar. This is the second drawer because vocabulary—language—precedes grammar in all endeavours. When we speak, we do not use grammar (don’t argue with me). Therefore, in writing, grammar is to serve the rhythm of the breath.

I have had many friends who do not write tell me that they would write but that they don’t know how to use punctuation but for periods (.) and perhaps CAPITALIZATION. ← also a period here. ← and here ← but not here (~) ← and this is a tilde (~) denoting irony or sarcasm—a conceptual tool writers use to be clever (though it more often comes off as arrogance). I do not use the tilde as irony punctuation often, but I think they’re compelling.

I digress.

I have had many friends avoid writing for fear of the shame of poor punctuation. In taking my descriptivism to an extreme, I invite the wary unmade meaning-maker to loose their fetters and just do the damn act. Worry naught for punctuation—it will not save you. Experiment and be open with other writers about your lack of knowledge for the prescriptive way we may use punctuation. Understand that in practicing prescriptivism, we should always stray from the path and exercise some freedom of expression. That’s how language works: It is an unfolding process, the same as anything.

Despite this framing, I do assert that all writers of English benefit to know and understand basic English grammar. One should not think that in my restriction of grammar to the second drawer and in stating that the formality of grammar is preceded by vocabulary that I aim to imply that vocabulary supersedes grammar—only that the former arrives before the latter’s consideration (indeed, I have changed much of the grammar in editing this from what I dicked in here on the first pass).

You do not need grammar to write, is what’s important to understand. You need grammar to develop meaning. Recall: The function of writing is to make meaning. Non-functional writing is a sacred task—no writer should ever feel dismayed at the thought of being misunderstood. Such is the way of language. Vocabulary is a barrow of bricks and grammar, the mortar. We may stack our bricks without laying down the mortar, but nothing that lasts will come of loose bricks—no matter how well they’re stacked⁹. Non-functional writing is not dysfunctional—only ephemeral. It is often of its time. Like fan-fiction or personal writings; though, the keeping of diaries is a whole other topic¹⁰.

A Brief But Delicious Overview of My Tendencies in English Grammar; or, a Quick Guide to Common Punctuation Based On My Preference

• periods ( . ) — Mainly use it to end sentences. Fuck—goddamn sentences. I should explain fuckin’ sentences.

  • sentences ( This is a sentence. ) — Sentences are—essentially—an idea; or, a direction in meaning. They can be used to do a stupid amount of things. When we speak we don’t speak in sentences, and so the concept of the sentence is rather elusive. Grammarians will describe them as possessing—at the very least—a subject and a verb. This is remarkably unhelpful. No one these days wants to learn jargon (even though jargon is often beautiful—especially in language). Nonetheless, the most important thing to know about sentences is that it doesn’t matter how long or short they are. When we use sentences in writing, we should experiment wholeheartedly with their length. Combine short and long sentences. This will help you feel how sentences operate and how they may be used to explore a landscape of meaning through ideas; or, direction. As you may have noticed, I tend toward longer sentences. It’s an unfortunate habit.

• commas ( , ) — A lot of people I know have told me that they get caught up on the comma and the semicolon ( ; ). The comma, frankly, is both abused and abuser. They’re just the friendliest marks. Often, we use them in such a way as explained by grammarians: to separate parts of a sentence, such as clauses, or to list things: nouns, verbs, adjectives, fuckin’ anything.¹¹ In my experience, commas are an all things in moderation, including moderation ordeal. Don’t let a comma impede a good sentence, because too often does a comma impede a good sentence. Practice using no commas, à la McCarthy¹². Practice using abundant commas, percolating sweet and bitter trickles of meaning and metaphor, ever-tending the use of language and tone. Don’t worry too much about an appropriate use—a “functional” use. Everyone uses them different anyway.

  • semicolons ( ; ) — There’s a whole book dedicated to this mark, and enough writings online to constitute several more. Semicolons may rank among the Great Mysteries of common knowledge—those things for which we have awareness but no practical knowledge; those things we question but never consider. I adore the semicolon for its appearance; or, presentation. On the page, a semicolon attracts the eye and sets the internal synthesis of meaning (our effort at reading) into overdrive; it is often used to craft gorgeous, evasive, and delirious run-on sentences of pristine quality, daring us to voyage down egregious, hopeless rivers of meaning; across dry, barren deserts of imagery; and, finally, to conclusion—if not satisfaction. I do not pretend to understand them; I only wield them; and likely in poor fashion unless by happenstance. Do not overuse them.

• THE em-dash ( — ) — I use the same style of em-dash for several ploys in writing. Before editing, I wield them mercilessly—passionately. There is such a subdued drama in them—a latent ultimatum. Yet, too is there a casual indifference to their possibility—the em-dash consecrates and diminishes at once. For the unfolding pattern of my effort at making meaning, the em-dash first offers a means of scaling one thought to another. Post editing, my writing tends to see far fewer, replaced by other punctuation—or destroyed. Do not overuse them. The difference between the semicolon and the em-dash is simple: One is a period above a comma and the other is a horizontal line.
  It is worth knowing about the tendency of LLMs to utilize the em-dash. You may be accused of harnessing an LLM to feign actual effort at the craft. The Distended Orthonym is an em-dash friendly publication and only utilizes LLMs post-editing to evaluate the efficacy of an effort—to receive an impression of an impression. We do this because people are lovely but often don’t know what they’re talking about, much like LLMs. I’d rather waste the machine’s time, knowing that if a human takes issue with a notion of mine then they will surely inform me of their discontent.

• additional commentaries — Obviously, my approach to this, as dictated here, is rather laissez-faire and tongue-in-cheek. I am not a grammarian and so I don’t care to prescribe or dictate the certain use of symbols. It is good to practice and to become familiar with the utility of punctuation but they are not critical to expression beyond the deeper development of one’s capacity for cleverness. And, I do believe it is worth going deeper, always. In considering my considerations, the Reader should investigate such things further on their own time. I am not here to teach, only to reflect. Nonetheless, thank you for putting up with me.

3. Elements of Style

It is common for aspiring writers to inevitably encounter Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style, a handbook from the early 1900s that is among the quintessential texts for aspiring meaning-makers. King refers to it as a book containing “…little or no detectable bullshit…” This is a rarity amongst such guides—and classes.

I have read The Elements of Style twice. It is fair, worth reading, and a slim handbook. It is a bit prescriptivist in tone, but many volumes on writing are prescriptivist in tone. Personally, I enjoy reading such volumes and others less keen on formalism. Among my favourites are as follows (BUY LOCAL):

• On Writing, by Stephen King

• The Elements of Style, by William Strunk Jr. & E. B. White

• Writing Tools, by Roy Peter Clark

• Zen in the Art of Writing, by Ray Bradbury¹³

• The Poetry Handbook, by Mary Oliver

• Writing & Failure, by Stephen Marche

Currently, I am skimming Ursula K. Le Guin’s Steering the Craft. I am sure it will end up being a worthy addition to this list. Other style guides have provided fair advice also. Many remain on my reading pile to peruse in the future. I have also found old textbooks valuable to rifle. You can find many used English textbooks at thrift stores where the book sections are often untapped gold mines.

Other authors have much to say about developing style, of course.
You can read about most of it online. Such is the miracle of the Internet.

Among my favourite examples of the influence of style guides on a writer’s ethos is how Hemingway’s experience at The Kansas City Star compelled him to adopt the Star’s style guide:

Use short sentences. Use short first paragraphs. Use vigorous English. Be positive, not negative.

One need hardly have read Hemingway to know the impact these few lines had on his writing—though, he must have forgot that final sentence. Cormac McCarthy also had interesting things to say about style. I disagree with most of them. George Orwell gives fairly practical advice in some of his essays (I like Orwell’s writing even if he was a frustrating man). Atwood offers insight.

Reading other writers on writing is best done as an act of grazing. We masticate their words, consider them and how they sustain our craft. Later, we likely dispense with all of it in favour of greener pastures: Ours. Explore, collect, and synthesize. The only way we may develop style, if at all, is through praxis (critical practice).

Notes on l’avant gauche & Conforming to Elements

As an ‘artist’, I prescribe to a personal philosophy I describe as l’avant gauche. Consider it a milieu of Daoist and postmodern sensibility interspersed with a materialist pragmatism and a radical openness to variation and imperfection—in simple terms.

I know there is a tendency to adhere to The Elements of Style such that one becomes fretful of unperceived solecisms in personal writing endeavours. This is unacceptable. The meaning-maker should never be stalled by a fear of the imperfect form.

A good example of this is the case of the split infinitive, whereby we habitually (colloquially) say things like ‘to patiently wait’ or ‘to boldly go,’ which are considered ‘incorrect’ by prescriptivists of English grammar. I, and other writers¹⁴, are not prescriptivists but rather possess a tendency towards descriptivism. In my case, I am wholeheartedly descriptivist: I do not even think one should concern oneself with solecisms.¹⁵ Idiomatic considerations obliterate all beauty. If we are to blithely make our meanings in abundance, we are best unbound in the meadows of syntax¹⁶.

This is a minor aside, though—at best, an addendum to The Elements of Style as a section in this piece. Later, I will go into l’avant gauche a bit more. I just thought it worth mentioning here that formalism is best used as adhesive, not in adherence. Some writers view formalism as a necessity—and it may be true that markets operate on formalism—but I think formalism best serves as a guiding line for experimentation. The writer is happier this way—and less arrogant (perhaps).

The Elements of Style are largely a mystery, unwrapped through careful practice and meditation. Good luck.

I hope You learns a lot and forgets everything. — willa beale

4. Tools

The next drawer must inevitably possess the ‘tools’ of writing: Those foibles without which we are novices of craft. I will take this portion to put forth a complementary work that pairs well with The Elements of Style: Roy Peter Clark’s Writing Tools, mentioned above. Less style guide and more a ‘practical advice’ book, Writing Tools offers a list of fifty ‘tools’ writers may consider to enhance the quality of their writing both in style and mechanics. These may be easily found online but the depth of the book is worthwhile. I would actually credit the work with helping to reignite my passion for writing as I was returning to the craft. It offers a lot of exciting ideas and encouragement.

However, such tools are not those that help the writer to begin the craft, only to practice. The only true tools you need in writing are a stylus and a blank page. Yet, in the modern writing environment we don’t so often write our drafts by hand but utilize a variety of complementary baubles to aid and encourage the craft. I carry with me at almost all times a rucksack or a bag—or something called some other name but is awful convenient and worthwhile to possess. I carry it with me at almost all times and at (almost) all times it carries within the following:

• a copy of select works of Keats¹⁷

• a copy of selected works of Whitman¹⁸

• a copy of Le Petit Prince (English translation)¹⁹

• a notebook (obviously everyone should wield a notebook)

• a pencil case (contains some pencils and some pens and some assorted stationery implements as:

  • a kneaded eraser

  • a pencil sharpener

  • some clips (for keeping papers together—surprisingly useful))

• a laptop (8-year-old MacBook Air—blesséd be those blessed with high tech mana) w/ charger

• a book (who even knows what it could be—today it is Writing Tools because I am writing this post—and as I am editing it, it is 365 Dao by Deng Ming-Dao)

• some sticky notes (kept in a Chessex plastic dice holder—they are small sticky notes for marking pages of interest and I use them more for TTRPG than I do for writing)

• a pair of eyeglasses (for overcoming wonky vision—some brilliant people where these; in fact, all the people I know who wear glasses are uniquely brilliant if stupid sometimes)

• a speaker (sometimes you wanna listen to music)

• my headphones (sometimes you wanna listen to music non-intrusively)

• a mouse (see: laptop—I do not need a mouse but I sure as hell enjoy having one)

• some playing cards (for friends and enemies)

On my desk I have all this and more whenever I am using my desk for writing. Of course, the most valuable tool in one’s arsenal is a panoply of emotional values we shouldn’t get into here. These would be things like patience and perseverance. It is unhelpful to discourse on them here and so I won’t. Practice moderation and self-forgiveness. The rest may follow. As you may glean, my style often struggles with a critical virtue: humility. This is sometimes deliberate, sometimes accidental. Such is the way of arrogance.

5. Awen

This is the largest drawer of my toolbox—and the densest. It also comprises the craft of the toolbox: the metal, the hinges, the handles—everything. It ought to be the largest drawer of any expressionist’s toolbox as well as the source. It is the potpourri whence emits the tonic of vivre that suffuses inventive effort of any kind. Here is stored all the inspiration and manic wisdom that compels our invention. Here is stored Daoism and l’avant gauche, the sixth chapter of Le Petit Prince and line 21 of Canto XII of Dante’s Inferno²⁰, and all the works of John Keats, and all the birdsong I have ever heard, and all the plants I have ever seen budding from the Earth.

I suspect, also, that this is where willa and Templeton and Nashoba and George and all the other writers of the Distended Orthonym were born. I cannot be sure though. They arrived one day, got to work, and never made a fuss about their histories²¹.

Awen is a Brittonic term denoting “inspiration,” personified as the muse of all creative artists. Because this is not only an abstract concept but also an ‘original’ invention for my toolbox, I want to list and illustrate some of the tools I keep in the Awen drawer. This may best describe what the drawer of manic inspiration may possess.

Daoism

The Brightstar of my philosophical endeavours. Daoism offers such a freedom of expression as I cannot imagine from another. Surely, whomever finds such a degree of freedom under another philosophy must truly be Daoist. I do not prescribe it, or suggest you need a philosophical orientation (though it undoubtedly helps). For me, there is no invention I manage without influence from the musings of Dao. It suffuses everything by natural consequence. Such is Dao. A further digression on this is best explored elsewhere. For now, we acknowledge the ineffable influence of Daoism on the quality of Awen prevalent in my artistic expression.

l’avant gauche

I do not favour the term ‘creative’. I do not feel I create art. Creation is an omnipotent god’s purview—and I am only a local god. My expression manifests as invention, to me. Invention is the purview of humankind, the reconfiguration of base elements into a new whole. There is nothing so much as an originality. All inflections reflect a source. We cannot separate our invention from our influence; we can only be clever in disguising insight as originality. This is achieved through a process of refinement: editing, study, Negative Capability, etc.²² We arrive at new conclusions through invention and in doing so loose the fetters of influence. We never escape them however we may try. We could never want to, either. This is a core understanding in l’avant gauche, being the pattern of thinking in my artistic approach that is not so much a philosophical system but an intuitive position (some might identify this as a philosophical mysticism).

L’avant gauche means, functionally, to anticipate awkwardness. We cannot avoid the solemnity of embarrassment in expression. We cannot achieve perfection. No “great work” is perfect. Dante was an egoistic madman. Shakespeare never said anything that wasn’t said before; he only invented new ways to say it. Oliver is gorgeous but her vernacular is utterly common. Such “great works” are plagued with insufficiency if honestly analyzed by the auspicious lauding we’ve applied to them in retrospect. We mythologize what is good so that it becomes great, as we mythologize the good so that it becomes bad. All of it is irreverent expression. Achievement in expression is self-contained. What is applied to it by external principles is but a masturbatory dialectic.

L’avant gauche is a developing system. It functions as an anchor to personal mythology as I navigate the treacherous waters of self-expression. I wish to be self-aware and to write things that will carry through and pierce others. L’avant gauche permits me to let reservations fall to the wayside in pursuit of what others may identify as a ‘true’ expression. It matters naught to me. True and false are but a blistering sun to a patch of moss such as I.

I’m sure we will speak more on the topic in future writings.

Negative Capability

I run myself ragged in my considerations of Keats. He is a fascinating figure to me, and his concept of Negative Capability has contributed greatly to my fascination. It isn’t easy to describe and I don’t claim to understand it. Nonetheless, I think it’s a terribly useful notion to meditate on in practice. The gist is simple: Negative Capability is the capacity to let go of preconception; or, identity. In Keats’ words: “…when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason—” In this sense, Negative Capability is one’s capacity to be at peace with ineffability—to be at peace with distended truth in contrast with the absolute truth. To me, this is useful for exploring ideas to greater extents, especially integrated with my conception of wu-wei in Daoist philosophy and l’avant gauche.²³

Sadness on the Day of Forty-four Sunsets

There are moments we may find in our interactions with media (influence) that remain with us for extended periods—not by way of consumption but of consideration. They permeate us, seeding deep in the seat of our inspiration. They confound us. We come back to them. They may be anything: history, science, fiction, nature, moments. Often they are moments. They strike like koans. I don’t know what to call them.

Chapter Six of Le Petit Prince traces a casual musing amidst the course of fables that comprise the children’s novel. In the short chapter, the protagonist discusses sunsets with the titular character. It’s beautiful and very sad. I consider it often. I consider translation and how even common tongue is mere translation. Something is always lost. I think there is value in writing because you often find you are translating yourself. Something is uncovered. Yet, the pursuit of unfolding ‘truth’ may lead to ‘exposure’. Perhaps we should be wary in sharing our writings with others. Perhaps something is lost in translation.

Perhaps the word for what I’m trying to describe describes something that inspires musing. Not mere ingestion and entertainment, but something haunting. I consider Chapter Six of Le Petit Prince. I consider a lot of the bullshit that happened in history—at least, the narrative I understand (I have surface-level knowledge of history). Anthropology is thrilling. The scientific speculations of prehistory. Much of philosophy is fascinating, just jargon-rich. The world is a complex, multifaceted whole. Our conception is unending and we are gifted with musing. Muses are made. They are not other people, found or chosen. They are Us, extended (or, distended).

Nature as Hierophant

There is undoubtedly something in Nature exceeding all human comprehension. Mystics get a bad rap—I believe they are misunderstood. Some of them, anyway. Nature is not a goddess or some unrelenting force. It is beyond either. We are nature—and willa and I believe this is critical to comprehend: Our alienation from nature is a narrative delusion. There is nothing about human society that alienates us from the natural world. Human society is part of nature. We’re just an invasive species for the planet. Agency is worthwhile. I write for nature as much as for anything else. It is my Nature, and one of the great natures of this remarkable human species. Through nature, we have come into being. It is good to honour interbeing through thought and practice. It contributes to Awen.

Grow a garden. You will see what I mean. Growing gardens contributes both to patience and humility. Meet some farmers and you may question this, but I swear it is true.

Finally, Mantras

In offering platitudes, I accept that some may become utterly carried away by them. I take no responsibility. Your efficacy in praxis is your burden alone. The following are a few mantras, new and old, upon which I meditate and from which I receive awen. Understand that when I say meditate, I mean Meditate: to ruminate at length and to voyage from a space of compassionate non-judgement. Consider them beyond the breath, please—

You do not have to be the prophet. — The wisdom of my childhood best friend, told to me many years ago. I have no idea why it even comes to mind, even after so many years of considering it. So it goes. To me, lately, it is an absurd statement and compels me to take myself less serious.

I am always right. — Very new and unexpected. From 12024 HE, this mantra compels a philosophy of contradictions fuelled by Daoism. I have received criticism for this mantra but I know I am not wrong, just incorrect.

He comes to see what you are suffering here. — The line from Dante. I don’t think life has an inherent meaning. Our capacity for conceptualization permits us a host of worthwhile illusions for contemplation. Meaning is born from contradictions. We are blessed to navigate meaning, even though it means our death.

Go deeper, not wider. — A handy consideration for study and for the development of healthy self-doubt. Sometimes, when others are talking, I remain silent. Perhaps I am clueless. That being said…

Specialization is for insects. — Regardless of how you may feel about Robert Heinlein, I think this quotation has been worth my time. I don’t think it is good to pigeonhole one’s capacity for interaction with humility. Embarrassment is also gift.

Work is never finished, only abandoned. — The paraphrase of Paul Valéry proves fruitful when confronting the contrived horror of perfection-seeking. Fuck an ending. Closure is a myth. To reflect is well enough—to edit well is a worthwhile skill—but we must be willing to drop things. Just do the work and then let go.

Note on Emotions

Everything I have spoken of in this section is largely rooted in personal mythology and therefore hopelessly abstract. This is not unintentional. When we write, we are always writing from a hopelessly abstract place (even the journalists). Navigating this is unruly. Emotions are always fickle, even when positive. Nothing lasts.

I have anxiety. I try not to write from anxiety unless I’m writing about anxiety. I try not to write from anger, too, even when I’m writing about anger. Reverence is useful, the worship of things. The problem is that anything can be taken too far. I do not prescribe an emotional state to exercise writing, but I think that writing is best edited under different conditions than those under which it was first scribed. Emotion is messenger. Let there be a harmony of communications. Tread softly. No feeling is final.

Afterword

Well, this was fun. Took me far longer than I would have liked. I do not enjoy dissecting myself. It is better to have the parts inside than to pull them out and scrutinize them. Nonetheless, I think this will be a fair piece to reflect on in future times. Of course, I have left much from considerations here despite the verbosity of the terrain covered. It is possible that I may return to a discussion of the Toolbox in future Journals. For now, it is better to abandon things.

I have no effective writing schedule, and I never have had one. This is why I carry my toolbox with me everywhere. You never know when writing will strike—and it has struck me in awkward places where I would be helpless if not for my trusty toolbox. Nonetheless, I am told that among the most effective tools a writer can employ is consistency. Considering this, I suppose even a consistent effort towards consistency hits the mark. I have faith that wherever I go with my toolbox, there I may find and earn the consistency owed to my craft.

Thank you, Sweet Reader, for your patronage. If you have made it this far, to read this text, then know that we love you and appreciate your eyes on us, even if we seem unseemly to thee. I hope you go on to write words you cherish, shared or unshared.

Now, on to the next thing.

1. “I want to suggest that to write to your best abilities, it behooves you to construct your own toolbox and then build up enough muscle so you can carry it with you. Then, instead of looking at a hard job and getting discouraged, you will perhaps seize the correct tool and get immediately to work.” — Stephen King, On Writing

2. This is, of course, wishful-thinking. No writers are orderly, even if they seem it. I am a tempest of notions, and this Journal is just one among them. Still, it is fun to conceptualize a ‘toolbox’.

3. I repeat a lot of this paragraph later. I have decided to keep it for posterity and emphasis.

4. Pu, as a Daoisrt might say. It is funny to consider this piece an uncarved block while editing it. But, I suppose the act of editing is the act of acknowledging imperfection. There never isn’t an uncarved block.

5. Not that having more words will make you better understood. Rather not, in fact. Striking the balance between verbosity and charm is like threading a needle with a tree trunk. We choose our battles. Vocabulary is most useful for self-conception and self-exploration. Words are small incantations that may bring us in contact with ‘truth,’ whatever that may be.

6. Where find good word?

7. This is not to say there is any sense in comparing Joyce and Nabokov. I don’t think it is helpful to hold works up to the light in such ways. Translation is its own beautiful discipline, though, and Nabokov has great charm there. Joyce, on the other hand, made aggressive, kinky love to language—and this is also a great charm.

8. The sin here, of course, is not that I used such an egregious and pretentious term as lepidopteran, but that I used it in such an obvious way as to describe a fucking moth—yet, this was not my cousin’s criticism. This being said, he also compared the style of the short story under review to Baldwin’s—and that was deeply endearing to that younger writer.

9. And even mortar may not save you from entropy.

10. This Journal series is largely an experiment in “functional personal writing”. (DO NOT get HUNG UP on my JARGON. Find your own way—I’m senseless, cavorting with demons. JUST WRITE, (bitch)(~).

11. I’m not going into all that jargon here—I’m not a grammarian.

12. A remarkable writer, surely. One capable of Negative Capability; or even l’avant gauche. His attitude toward some punctuation marks seemed a bit aggressive but by God does he have chutzpah.

13. A remarkable collection of essays for any artist. So much so that I am singling it out with another footnote.

14. Raymond Chandler once complained to an editor of The Atlantic:

“By the way, would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write in a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss-waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will remain split, and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of barroom vernacular, this is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed and attentive. The method may not be perfect, but it is all I have.

15. Here is a Wikipedia article to promote further contemplations on this.

16. Do not be overwhelmed by JARGON. This is a liberating practice.

17. I may as well do a whole piece about Keats sometime. i love the Man.

18. Racism aside, we cannot deny the boy’s talent for verse.

19. The most important children’s book an adult can read and reread.

20. Of Kirkpatrick’s translation, as I have indicated elsewhere. It is sometimes satisfying in other translations, but the simplicity of Kirkpatrick’s English stirs me.

21. It comes to me in visions.

22. To each their own.

23. I recognize how unhelpful this blurb is in encapsulating or describing Negative Capability and integration. This is fine. Ultimately, such concepts evolve into a sort of polysemy: they shift and change, the words mere Brightstars for the concepts they inspire. Go and study.