Writing Material(s)
My brother-in-law recently asked if I like to write in a certain kind of notebook. And I did I ever have a specific answer! I write in large moleskin dotted journals (I like the kind with brown paper covers that so that you can write or sketch or put stickers on the outside) and I write with mechanical pencils. He prefers a row of freshly sharpened #2 pencils; we agreed, though, that the tools we sit down with shape not just the mood and experience of working, but also the ideas we produce.
Poems are not just made from language. They are made from breath and vocal cords, from micro-movements of the hand and wrist, from ink or graphite spread across plant fibers. (Even a poem typed on a digital “cloud” is made of tangible stuff, anchored to a warehouse full of computer chips.) And these materials shape and support the creative process in all kinds of subtle and interesting ways.
For instance, I accidentally switched to dotted journals during the pandemic (probably due to some kind of supple chain issue). The dotted pages look more suitable for an architect than a poet (then again isn’t a poem a kind of blueprint for experience?), but I love the way that they let me play with spacing. They free me from some of the linear tidiness I associate with legal pads, but they offer me more structure than the void of a completely blank page—and help me see how lines are relating across distance. In fact, some of the unusually formatted poems in Acoustic Shadows probably came about because I discovered dotted pages—and the joy of a loose grid—at just the right moment.
A mechanical pencil (appropriate for a writer obsessed with the history of technology!) offers me just a hint more precision than a regular pencil. It actually slows my writing down just a little compared to a ballpoint pen, and this builds a bit more care into the process and gives me time to make useful and interesting “mistakes”. I almost never use the eraser (I prefer to cross out or bracket words that aren’t working and write alternatives nearby so that I can see the poem’s history and possible futures on the page), but I like knowing that I can erase—that the draft isn’t permanent and will continue to change and evolve. And finally, I love the barely perceptible screet-shush sound that a mechanical pencil makes and the way it reminds me of a dog running through snow.
If you are feeling stuck or uninspired, it might be helpful to reflect on your tools—and to experiment with new ones.
P.S. Because recommending books is my love language, you can now find all the books I’ve discussed on this newsletter (including my favorite books on creative living and thinking) here. I’ll receive a small portion of the proceeds (and so will your local independent bookstore) if you buy books through this link, but you can likely also find these titles at your local library or used bookstore.
