I have spent a great sum of time dwelling on the importance of living ‘in the moment’ that it has often,  quite incidentally, taken me out of the moment. But from this dwelling I feel as though I’ve risen with a great secret.

As I write now, I feel very present; so present that in fact I have to strain to remember that the past intention of this blog was rooted in the writing process itself; not this sort of spiritual discussion. Yet I have discovered that ‘writing’, whatever it may constitute, is under the command of presence. Bad writing is that which dwells, or that which anticipates.

Whenever I sit down to write a poem, having been through a hellish day that I’d rather forget, and I want to throw it out onto the page, it can go one of two ways: I may produce the first draft of a masterpiece or simply codify my inner-moaning. The same can go for planning and ‘anticipating’ work. Threefold, I have come to learn the difference.

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