90s

Eyelids open. Tongue runs across upper lip moving from left side of mouth to right following arc of lip. Swallow. Jaws clench. Grind. Stretch. Swallow. Head lifts. Bent right arm brushes pillow into back of head… (from Fidget, 1997)

We’ve all started to write a story or a poem by locating the reader in our own writing space, with our own immediate sensations. Sometimes you want, no, you just need the reader to occupy your body, to know what you know at that given point in time, because everything in that moment is important. You’ll give ludicrous details to help readers, stating that the angle of the shadow coming from the bathroom door at precisely 7pm gives you a sense of foreboding. Everything starts to mean everything.

But while writing like this can be an immensely rewarding experience, it’s easy to view this type of idea gathering as a gateway into the real story or the real poem, the by-product of writing what it is we actually want to write. In the end, we cast these details aside. But what if all those details really are what you want to write? What if they really do mean everything?