Mark Scroggins : My Writing Day

 

 

Aside from some morning rituals (coffee, minimal ablutions, headlines and puzzles and social media) and the practical mechanics of life (errands, meals, laundry, mail and email, and so forth) my days usually unfold as a patchwork of activities. The ground is invariably reading, as I’m always making my way through a half dozen books, and have started and laid aside (temporarily or permanently) a dozen more. That ground is varied or interrupted by bouts of practicing my bass, guitar, or bouzouki; by sketching or drawing or working with colors; and by writing.

When I have a prose piece on hand—an essay, conference paper, or review—I can work with some discipline. I feel the threat of a deadline. Those are the days I don’t allow myself music or the visual arts, and try to put my phone far away. I am archaic enough to do all my note-taking and outlining, and often my first drafts, by hand; but over the past couple of decades I’ve become more comfortable writing prose on the keyboard. When a deadline for a discrete assignment looms, then, I can usually produce a draft in a day’s concentrated work—six or eight hours. I write “long,” as it were, including all the stylistic flourishes and incidental observations that catch my fancy. Then I go back and trim, mercilessly, until the resulting script is taut and relatively free of slack passages. I’ve had the good fortune over the years to have my prose subjected to savage editing by some extraordinary editors, and I’ve tried to internalize their lessons. I’d guess I spend almost as much time editing and polishing a prose piece as I do producing the full draft.

So far as prose goes, I envy the disciplined, steady productivity of some of the Victorians. Leslie Stephen, Virginia Woolf’s father and the editor of the Dictionary of National Biography, was known to produce a couple of five-thousand word essays a week, each at a single sitting. And Anthony Trollope is famous for his morning ritual of turning out 250 words every fifteen minutes (by the stopwatch), for a daily three-hour sitting. It’s no surprise that those serious beardy dudes produced collected editions that run into the scores of volumes. (And of course, one wonders whether Leslie Stephen or Anthony Trollope ever changed a diaper, cooked a family meal, or cleaned the cat litter.)

But then there’re the poems, which resist any sort of schedule or discipline. In between designing wallpaper, textiles, and furniture and working tirelessly to turn England into a socialist utopia, William Morris managed to write some twenty volumes, among them a huge quantity of quite respectable poetry. “If a chap can’t compose an epic poem while he’s weaving a tapestry,” Morris said, “he had better shut up; he’ll never do any good at all.” This amuses me as a prolepsis of the “multi-tasking” we’re all suppposed to have mastered, but it’s really a pipe-dream, at least for me; I can’t even listen to music, much less weave, when I’m trying to write verse.

My poems emerge from my notebooks, which are the constant companion and counterpoint to my reading. I write by hand, with fountain pens (none of them expensive) in various colored inks, in bound lined notebooks. For the past decade or so, my go-to has been the A5 Leuchtturm1917. My notebooks are middens, rather than organized repositories. They contain “to do” lists; journalling; quotations from what I’m reading; brief notes and extended meditations; sketches and drawings in pencil, ink and colors; doodles; long stretches of prose drafts; and—yes—poems in progress. (I’ve only recently begun taking advantage of the “Inhalt/Contents/Contenu” pages Leuchtturm helpfully provides at the beginning of each notebook, and trying to keep track of what’s where.)

I never begin my writing day by thinking “today I will write a Poem.” A poem usually starts as a phrase or line that’s come out of nowhere, and accretes more phrases and lines around it. I copy them over and over, changing, cutting, adjusting; suturing one passage to another, until I have what feels like a whole. For the past eleven years, “a whole” usually means a section of the ongoing serial poem Zion Offramp—though there are occasional one-offs, and earlier this year I was surprised to find myself entired absorbed in writing an unrelated 1000-line poem.

Writing poetry, then, occupies my writing day rather differently than the prosaic task of prose. I can only work at a poem for an hour or so at a time, need to break off and pick up an entirely unrelated book, or a musical instrument, or a brush or pencil—but always with the unresolved issues and potentialities of the poem lurking in the back of my mind. I will play “Killing Floor” a half-dozen times through, or spend forty-five minutes trying to emulate the curves of a Burne-Jones profile—then return to my desk to copy out my draft for the fifth or sixth time, and find that what needs to be cut or added has suddenly become obvious.

When a poem has reached the place where it feels “finished,” I key it into the laptop. Sometimes I’ll print it out, mark up the printout, and enter a set of revisions. More often I’ll mentally set it aside for a few days, and turn my attention to other things. Happily, there are always other things that need attention, these days most notably the reading and note-taking and outlining and provisional drafting I’ve been doing for the next big prose book, a group biography of the Objectivists. When that project is well and truly afoot, I suspect my writing day will look quite different.

Part of me—the Puritan side—envies the regimented work ethic and productivity of other writers. And I suspect my own scattered “work” schedule stems more from my own internal wiring (ADHD, anyone?) than the demands of the quotidien world. But I do what I can, and try to do as much and the best I can (“not enough, and not good enough,” says the inner Puritan). As do we all.

 

 

 

Mark Scroggins has written or edited numerous books of prose and poetry, including two chapbooks from above/ground press. He lives in Montclair (New Jersey) and Manhattan.

Hassen Saker : My Writing Day

11 August 2026

 

 

My partner leaves for work by 9. Just months prior, I’d be up and handling some chores or random practical stuff trying to stay out of her way until she’s left. The last couple months I’m finally getting full sleep and I’m precious about that; I can’t fall asleep until well after midnight. I’m usually up by 10. Check weather and scan New York Times, Reuters, and Associated Press headlines before getting out of bed. Yesterday I was promptly in the pool at our local Y. I have a light breakfast at the counter while reviewing independent journalists’ recent social feeds. It’s the least I can do, to pay attention to corruption and withering democracy here in the States and to injustices that others are enduring here and worldwide. Click my support, and warn others. I remind myself of the white-tailed deer, head comes up, evaluates, then maybe a signaling tail, too. Repost warnings and useful information for others to heed for our safety.

I may high-tail it myself, outbound. It's pretty feasible I’m on an AI list of political unsavouries according to our current government’s “enemy” parameters because I’ve been publicly critical of the administration. Or because I’m a feminist, or a lesbian, or because I’ve some Lebanese Druse heritage, or various other offenses to hysterical psychopaths in charge. It’s not so much about my physical survival as it is about fulfilling what feels like my purpose. That, and self-respect, and principles, and the unstable, imbecile repugnants milling about like prerecorded zombies. I steel myself and dedicate the first part of my days to this ugly task.

In the past I may have written poetry about all this (gestures outward) but the horror is too profound for much poetic notion and I’m not processing its immense emotion – yet. Poetry feels too self-indulgent or just deficient. But I understand the arguments for art-making in crises. The very idea of poetry doesn’t resonate with me when the world is on fire, souls are on fire, all lit by pyromaniac ghouls closing in. Instead, I grasp at “strategic planning” straws that at least provide me a sense of agency even though my effort could be fruitless. Or maybe such cantankerousness is how I deal with chaos-induced disorientation. Poetry can come later. It always does.

My mornings consist of this kind of thinking in a coffin-quiet apartment. I read and consider, try to prioritize being of use and how I might be least burdensome, and what time/focus/intuition dictates I do next. I’ll prepare tea then sit at my desk to work, with phone nearby but sound off. I get mundane matters handled first – setting appointments, returning calls, paying bills or following through on a commitment. I utilize two monitors, for ergonomics and for mental flow. I have several creative projects going at any given time - it may be one or two poetry manuscripts, random poems, or a video project, or audio/music, or a political manifesto, a novel, a screenplay, or a non-fiction book. It sounds stupid but it’s how I work and I often have to switch my focus. It’s like Tetris with creative projects, fitting appropriate blocks between time and focus constraints. Getting a medical procedure later this week that may take me out for a few days or couple weeks, unsure yet. But I’m determined to finish this one particular project in a month’s time. Then another project to wrap up the following month.

I’ve never focused on a writing career, though it’s what I’ve wanted since I was a teen. I’ve never focused on a film career but it’s also what I wanted since I was barely an adult. My life has been a series of other priorities. Raising my son, human relationships, small businesses, non-profit work, activism, eldercare, my health. This is why I’ve primarily written poetry – I haven’t had proper periods of time for projects that demand long hours of focus, or funds to arrange it so. Many of these priorities have fallen away, the good things have settled, and I trust writing will soon be my main focus.

The most pressing priority over the last year, and whenever it has demanded, has been my health. Could be looking at various surgeries. I’ve already had eight major ones that each took months of recovery. I have Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, so my connective tissue has been a lifelong problem. Not to complain, we all have our difficulties, but it is impactful to a creative life; it requires a lot of my time and focus between physical maintenance and medical appointments. Plus, it’s exhausting, hard to stay on task, sometimes hard to push through pain. Aging with it can get overwhelming and intensely tricky.

Until last year, I spent eight years caring for my parents and my aunt. First, as primary care, then as secondary, plus a good deal of management duties. I had unexpectedly found myself (and my first-class partner) staying in Michigan while I ran my Philadelphia/Jersey business remotely. Then sold it and started a local art gallery and frame shop, running that until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I mean, I couldn’t physically stand anymore.  

I’d begun a nonfiction manuscript in 2009, along with other fanciful projects. I’ve worked on it periodically between priorities but it was neglected for at least a decade. In 2023, a few years after my dad passed and I’d recovered from three surgeries, I couldn’t physically hold a job any longer and I took time to make some real headway with it. It was a special time in our loft space, when one neighbor took legal action to force our mutually adjoined neighbor, a middle-aged drummer and concert host, to cease his aggressive and amplified noise-making. It was also right after the neighboring shelter and soup kitchen moved their entrance around the corner. And after the city’s vice department finally busted the violent dealers selling fentanyl and whatever other deadly shit to the homeless folks on the sidewalk under our windows.

The light in the loft was divine, like the long-missed silence. My inner world was uninterrupted. Breakfast and lunch were so quick and easy I didn’t have to think about it. Every other day I’d go early to the gym or to physical therapy. My workspace was perfect. I finally broke through the barrier of the neglected manuscript. Words flowed. The large space allowed me to get up frequently and walk around, stretch, recline as needed, heat and ice, take time out to care for myself throughout the day. That was pretty much it, and it was glorious. I churned out hundreds, even thousands, of words per day before my love arrived home. We’d cook and eat together, get our fill of stories and anecdotes, character voices, enjoy music, sometimes with absurd dancing, sometimes errands or walks. I called my aunt every single evening around 10 to at least say, “nighty-night” to each other. She lived alone, though legally blind, hard of hearing, had various issues related to old age and so had to use a walker. That’s some grit. I’d maybe return to my desk to write for another couple hours when my partner retired to bed.

Weekends with the last two elders were as lovely as they could be in the circumstances. In 2024 they both rapidly declined. If you already don’t know, you can imagine how much care, planning, management, sitting, listening, hand-holding, fussing, dreading. Just a couple months after Mom died, and in the midst of moving my poor aunt into a skilled nursing home, we were forced out of our beautiful loft because of toxic dust falling from the open rafters during a roofing debacle. Every inch of our place was covered in black tar and debris. Lab-certified toxic. And it kept falling. We were displaced for months, living in hotels during the weeks and weekends we stayed at the family home an hour away, cleaning up, holding the estate sale, making updates, staging, then an open house and showings to sell it (my partner was our realtor). It finally sold before Christmas.

Our aunt died during the time when we were still moving into our new apartment. Funeral arranging came next. I even performed a song that she had requested – first time since I was a teen and I can’t believe I held it together to deliver it acapella. I was apparently functional inside the fog of death, a fog that surrounds death on all sides, obscures it from the future, even, as memory mis/behaves. You remember general events and facts if you’re lucky. And feel a deep haunting if you’re feeling.

Grief soon followed those necessary tasks. Grieving the sweet and complicated loves, their awful agonies, their regrets, my regrets, and fears of regrets my son or siblings may later have. Grieving our own home, and my family’s home – the woods there, and land, and creek, and pond, and night sky with that specific dark tree line. They’re all so close in my heart but I’m still not myself. Or I’m not yet familiar with my new self. I keep saying that these times require us to grow another limb to function. Adapting the heart after loss, well, I don’t have sound insight about that yet.

We’ve had this ground floor apartment for over a year now. It’s a shoebox, really. A small cave. The only windows face east to a parking lot. But it’s new and clean and quiet. My obligations have dwindled. I helped my son, as much as I could, during a difficult transitional time in his life so that he’s settled. I’ve organized our household and files. I’ve archived all the family media, including recipes and memorabilia. I scanned and edited photos, digitized videos, and made memorial films for the dear ones. Edited family videos for genealogy and posterity – footage of my interviews of the elders from years ago, plus the old 8mm stuff. I’m sure it’s all helped to process the loss. I’m hoping it helps family do the same as they need.

Yet, too much here haunts, both locally and in this infected country. My partner and I are restless. It feels like closing a chapter by getting slowly squeezed. Invasive surveillance, vicious authoritarianism and its hateful offshoots, and scarcity are closing in. Many here seem to be proverbial frogs in the soup, hence, my morning rituals; to keep informed and unacclimated. It’s easy to be complacent when the necessity for sacrifice isn’t clearly impending. So, we’re pretty much prepared for the next move. I keep my ear to the ground, or in the air, rather, and try to wrap up loose ends, tune loose projects, tighten loose joints as much as I can before we’re again in motion.

It’s probably pretty obvious at this point in my rambling that in order to describe my days, I’m compelled to give background and other context – the theatre around this moment in time for me and my writing life.

All to explain that here, after the priorities of caregiving, duties, preparations, moves, completions, and intense loving, there is a sense of small pockets of voided space in this apartment and in my chest. I imagine miniscule, gravity-heavy black holes floating about, tugging at whatever passes by. When I go to sit at my desk, my heart seems to snag for moments, and I find myself in a slight tussle before I can fully turn to a project. I can’t say I’m unhappy, or unsatisfied, or that I’m any worse off than other times in my life. In fact, I’m oddly more at peace than ever, even if I find myself holding my breath at times. To respond to a prompt such as “tell me about your days,” the first thing, the most prevalent thing, about my days, is this soul-catching silence, after death, between news of deaths of innocents, of innocence, and of so many aspects of the sacred natural world. Silence from the death of freely speaking and silence of people we know on the difficult topics. Silence from the confounding death of justice. Silence of distance from various types and styles of warfare. Silence before our rapid reflexes, a bounding response we pray will help us escape such horrors worse than death. It's also vital.

When silence isn’t a gift, it’s an obnoxiously vague, lingering question, increasingly present in our times. Fortunately for me, I’ve been able to use it, mostly, to fuel productivity. So far, I eventually shake it off enough to not drag heavy trouble from one day to the next. I settle my evenings with a cup of herbal tea and learning a little French before bed.

 

 

 

Hassen Saker is a North American experimental poet and interdisciplinary creator, working with texts, audio, photography, film, new media, performance, & actions (i.e., forming organizations & a meta-religion as activist-art projects). Her written works have been published in various journals, anthologies, & small presses. Her published collections of poetry include Salem (belladonna* books, 2005); Sky Journal (Dusie Press, 2014); & Consolation Snacks (Furniture Press, 2017). Her poetry film shorts include terra lingua: three aspects (2013); Sky Journal (2014); & Beasts: Rivers (2023). Saker’s multimedia & art/poetry film installations have been featured online, over radio, in public art spaces & galleries. She has performed in numerous venues throughout cities in the U.S.

She has collaborated with wonderful creators like poet Deborah Poe with her poetry film Solastalgia (2017) & with artist/engineer/scientist/educator Natalie Jeremijenko & her xDesign Environmental Health Clinic at NYU. 

Saker has been a sustainable business owner, gallerist & art framer, professional organizer, etc, living in Los Angeles, Oakland, Chicago, Philadelphia, & South Jersey. She now lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan with her partner, Lauren Cavote.

More at hassensaker.com

Katherine O'Hara : My Writing Day

 

                        Just let go. Get well slow. Claim rest as holy work. – Josina Guess

When I was in my MFA, my full-time job was being a writer. I’d start the day with decaf coffee before getting ready for my morning meeting with Lookout Books and my afternoon meeting with Beloit Poetry Journal. I’d spend semesters reading workshop letters during lunch, taking notes in books sometimes assigned, sometimes even written by my mentors. Every waking moment was meant for writing. And the department was my refuge for it. I’d leave classes and Writers’ Week conferences feeling energized, ready to write. Writing often in between classes, on the weekends, over holiday breaks, and, of course, before an upcoming workshop deadline.

My mother often said You’ll have so much more free time when you’re not in school anymore. But I didn’t mind. I was a writer, an editor, a marketer, a reading series leader, a student, a co-worker, a friend. I stretched myself to fill every opportunity and I loved every minute of it. Receiving my MFA and BFA back-to-back from the same institution, I spent seven years of my life with this one purpose: I am a writer. I write.

My thesis from the MFA program is Between Two Houses: a novel based in Cankton, Louisiana, where my family is from. In 2019, my writing day was flying to New Orleans with my mother and driving to Cankton. A part of my mother’s history that she had not seen in over 40 years. While my thesis is a work of fiction, the work exists in a real place—honoring my family and our collective histories.

The novel, like myself, has visions of changing shape, growing into something that gets at the heart of what I’ve been struggling to say. One of the protagonists in the novel, Lyla, is coming to terms with her father’s death but also discovering who she is outside of her family’s influence. She doesn’t know who she is now that this big defining pull is gone.

She’s well…like me.

Almost two years out of my MFA program now, I can’t say that my writing days are the same. I’m in the process of revising my novel with the intention of querying agents again. But I’d be lying to you if I said I’ve touched the manuscript more than I’ve tweeted about the idea of working on it. I email my accountability partners with no pages, reschedule workshops with friends, fall off the wagon, and apologize often. To my friends. To my mentors and professors. To my dream agent. To myself.

I don’t feel like a writer anymore, I tweet. There are heart reactions and hugs and same and reassurance that I most definitely am one. It’s ironic that I’m sitting in my protagonist Lyla’s shoes closer than I ever have before. This year is a grief-filled year: chapters closing, moving house, losing loved ones and pets who have passed away. And through all this, I’m trying to reckon with myself. Who I am and what I want out of life.

I feel unmoored. I’ve spent this year crying. I cry saying goodbye to friends who move away, who are set on a new path.  I cry when pets, extended family members, and faculty members pass away. I cry about not having any hobbies or too little hobbies or too little time in the day to do anything or not wanting to do anything once I have the time. I clock out of work and immediately lay down in bed. I don’t want to leave the house. The laundry piles up. So do the dishes. I tell my partner this makes my brain itch. I am both burnout and restless. The ship and the iceberg that sinks it.

I attend bi-monthly therapy sessions. I up the milligrams on my medication. I get pissed when that pill isn’t enough, and I need to take my other medication on top of it to trick my body into calm. I’m learning and will probably forever be learning that planning my life gives me comfort but that I don’t need a plan to feel safe with being a human in this world.

I want to reflect on what nurtures our minds and our bodies. The writing life, to me now, is as much sitting down to write as it is getting away from the page to cultivate small moments away. Jessica Jacobs and I talked about a digital sabbath, taking time away from technology to take care of our minds and spirits and, in extension, our writing.

This is new to me. Moving against writer’s guilt (Am I writing enough? My book will never be acquired if I don’t finish the damn thing. Will I finish it?).

Instead, I want to find a small joy that makes me excited to return to the page when I’m ready. I want to give myself grace to return to the joys I’ve neglected like calling my friends, crocheting, and reading. This is a hard practice to start but a worthy one. Nourishing and honoring our creativity in a less regimented but more gentle way is what I want to learn to hold.

This is the longest piece of writing I’ve written in almost two years. I hope that this is the beginning of a return. So today, on this writing day, this first writing day in so long, I want to manifest. One day I will have energy again. One day I will sit down with my novel and try to write it. I’ll try again. I’ll map. I’ll restructure. I’ll a write a sentence. Maybe a paragraph or two in one sitting. I’ll be kind to myself when I fall off the wagon again. Because I will. When my depression and anxiety and burnout raise their ugly heads, I’ll be kinder. I’ll tell myself I’m as much a writer when I write as when I do not. That I’m as much a good person and friend when I’m well as when I’m sick. I’ll tell myself that this life is worth it and that joy will return again.

 

 

Katherine O’Hara received an MFA with Distinction from UNCW and is a Tin House Workshop alumna. She is the communications director for the NC Writers' Network—the state’s oldest and largest literary arts services organization devoted to writers. She’s also marketing manager of Longleaf Review and reads submissions for storySouth and Hub City Press. She has worked formerly for Beloit Poetry Journal, Ecotone, and Lookout Books. Among others, Katherine’s writing has appeared in the Hayden’s Ferry Review, NELLE, Artemis Journal, and YES POETRY. As far as writing, she is pitching her hybrid novel that features poetic interpretations of grief in rural Louisiana, where her family is from.