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All literature is re-creation, as opposed to recreation, but a sport nevertheless, a sport being made at the moment of its composition and then being perfected to a degree commensurate with the writer's ability or disability. The writer, no matter how good or bad, must always think himself the worst writer in the world until, that is, he confronts a writer even worse than he, experiencing a sort of dreaded delight, realizing that really bad writing is sometimes so breathtakingly bad as to be beautiful. Reading a sentence or two of some other writer's bad writing the writer plows ahead with newfound energy and purpose, sure that he will win at least the consolation prize for his own poetry or prose currently under construction, having been humbled enough during his own years of writing to recognize the brotherhood to which he and all writers belong.

The moment I write a sentence I cannot help but compare it to Shakespeare, and by way of comparison I am of course comparing my whole writing self to Shakespeare or John Donne or John Cheever or any number of John's or Emily's or Robert's whom I've read over the years, not to mention the writer's who write in other languages and who I've read in translation; the French poets and novelists particularly come to mind, as do the underrated writers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. 

I like to say that I write my speaking and I speak my writing, when, in fact my writing speaks for itself. Good writing is, of course, nothing if not clear thinking, very clear thinking indeed. Saying something clearly gives it different meaning. I only rise above other writers by my willingness to compete with them, to beat them whether they be good or bad.

And to hell with grammar! There's a story told of Sigismund, King of Rome, who, having made a grammatical mistake in a public speech, said to the person who pointed out his error: "I am King of Rome and therefore above grammar." Sigismund was known thereafter as 'Sigismund the supragrammaticam," a man who knew how to say what he wanted to say.

Draft, poem in progress, "Autumnal", fall, 2018.