Ben Niespodziany : Day in the Life

Every day is different. Sometimes I work at my library from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Other days I work 4:00 p.m. to midnight. Next week, once winter break begins, I'll work from noon to 8:00 p.m. Like I said, every day is different. Most of my poetry (the first drafts, at least) are completed while on the clock, regardless of the time of day. They're easy to spit out in between library tasks as my first drafts never take longer than 10 minutes and usually only take about five. When I'm off the clock (especially on weekends), I rarely write new poems. Instead, I revisit and edit older poems, work on content for my website, finalize freelance work, and spend time with my partner. We recently vacationed in Uruguay, started watching The Good Place, and now we're hooked. Without further ramble, here's a 'Day in the Life' for myself, Ben Niespodziany, on Monday, December 10, 2018.

[Note: I believe that all of the information included below assists with my creative process. It’s all equally as important. I try to read just as much as I write and I find myself inspired and revitalized after visiting the gym. Even my lengthy commute to work allows me time to reflect and brainstorm. Also, sleep. Also, coffee.]

December 10 was soundtracked by:

ALEX and Kendall Miles - Hollow Moon

Benny the Butcher – Tana Talk 3

Smino - NOIR

6:35 a.m. - Wake up call. I pay a man to knock on my door every morning since I refuse to use an alarm clock. Not really. It's a typical ringtone. The sun isn't quite awake and neither am I.

7:01 a.m. - Drive to the library.

8:00 a.m. - Arrive at the library. Clock in. Open the library. Turn on the lights and the computers. Turn off forwarding of the phones. Check in books. Check email.

8:27 a.m. - Read a few poems from Anthem for the Wounded by M.A. Vizsolyi.

8:46 a.m. - Enjoy my first cup of coffee. Medium roast. No room for cream.

8:51 a.m. - Write my first poem. A poem about falling asleep.

9:02 a.m. - Write my second poem. A poem about a car crash.

9:20 a.m. - Write my third poem. A poem about a new brain.

9:25 a.m. - Write my fourth poem. A poem about a snow injury.

9:49 a.m. - Read a handful of stories/fables from Cradle Book by Craig Morgan Teicher.

10:15 a.m. - Write my fifth poem. A nonsensical, lyrical poem.

10:33 a.m. - Read two poems online by Hala Alyan.

10:51 a.m. - Write my sixth poem. A poem about an animal in a burrito.

10:56 a.m. - Write my seventh poem. A poem about a toy soldier.

11:09 a.m. - Write my eighth poem. A poem about a sinking island.

12:25 p.m. - Spend my hour-long lunch break reading Micheline Aharonian Marcom's The Brick House.

1:13 p.m. - Read a handful of poems from Ben Mirov's collection, Hider Roser.

1:51 p.m. - Write my ninth poem. A poem about chickpeas and broken watches.

2:11 p.m. - Purchase a Sprite.

2:16 p.m. - Compile the list of my favorite films of 2018 to publish on neonpajamas.com the following day.

2:45 p.m. - Write my tenth poem. A poem about firefighters and kites.

3:40 p.m. - Write my eleventh poem. A poem about Ohio.

4:00 p.m. - Clock out of the library. Drive home.

5:00 p.m. - Change clothes. Go to the gym.

6:00 p.m. - Return home. Eat dinner. Shower.

6:51 p.m. - Freelance work for independent artists. Write two Spotify bios.

8:10 p.m. - Freelance work for Chillhop Records. Send interview/feature questions to one illustrator, one designer, and fourteen music producers.

8:35 p.m. - Edit and go through poems I wrote back in October. I often write my first drafts in 5-10 minutes, then revisit them two months later. The ones that make the cut past the second draft will be printed for a handwritten (and hopefully final) third draft. Sometimes a fourth, fifth, sixth draft is necessary. Only about 10% of my writing makes it to the print stage.

9:00 p.m. - Finish an episode of the Great British Baking Show and watch an episode of The Good Place with my partner.

10:18 p.m. - Read three poems by C.T. Salazar.

10:31 p.m. - Write my twelfth and final poem. A poem about mustard. Set my alarm for 6:35 a.m. Fall asleep.

Ben Niespodziany is a librarian at the University of Chicago. He runs the multimedia art blog and record label [neonpajamas] and has had work published in Cheap Pop, Paper Darts, Pithead Chapel, and various others. He hopes to one day be sponsored by Sprite. 

Website: www.neonpajamas.com

SoundCloud: www.soundcloud.com/neonpajamas

Chapbooks: www.gumroad.com/neonpajamas

Suzanne Chiasson: my (small press) writing day

My writing day is in transition

—not restricted to a particular time or place.

If I check the Notes on my phone, I might find something written in the middle of the night, or in the middle of my daughter’s volleyball game.

Looking now, I find a Note that says Brave women / Mother calls me fierce. I wonder where that was going.

In another Note, under an address for a house for rent, I find Lost words / Curates artists for status. Trying to describe my novel sometimes feels more difficult than it did writing it. This can’t be true. I must have forgotten.

Under a shopping list for Milk / Stock / Arborio, I find Wrench / Wrestle / Wrest, looking for that one word for that one poem.

Assumption. Unraveling whiteness in relation to characters. On the same Note: New blood / Drying my dog / Between the Bars. Drying my dog after walking in the rain is one of my favourite non-writing activities inserted into a writing day.

I find book lists mixed with soccer lineups and triggers for poems. Funambulist / For a split second Loni Anderson.

Title for a mythology mash-up poem for my daughter’s soccer team. Cerberus United, Phoenix Sunny Side Up.

Coffee. That’s the first thing.

Don’t do the dishes. That’s the second.

Once I figured out that the dirty dishes could stay piled in the sink, my world opened up. I started to take my writing seriously. I couldn’t wait for the right time. I had to carve out time, demand time, of myself. Nor could I wait for on office, a writing room. I realized I didn’t need one. I’ll take one though! In the meantime, I’ve made myself portable.

My most productive working place, when I really want to put in the hours, is the dining room table. Made of French oak, hand-crafted, with tongue and groove joints, and two retractable leaves on shaky rails that Monsieur Heim added himself, the table sits solidly in the centre of the dining room. Monsieur Heim sold it to us when we moved back to Vancouver. Working at this table is as close as I get to a writing ritual. I clear whatever glasses or crumbs or homework or crafts have been left behind, and sit down with my laptop and notebooks. Every now and then I have to google how to remove Sharpie from the wood.

I write a new Note: Ode to table. There’s a poem here, I know it.

“One’s commitment is solely to attend.” Whenever I’m having a hard time with the sitting down part of writing, I remind myself of these words by Gail Sher from her book One Continuous Mistake. They’re kind words, and effective in getting me to show up to the table to work.

Recently I’ve expanded my idea of a writing day to include all the stuff around writing—research, marketing, volunteering, events, social media. In expanding the idea of what can be included, I find I’m also expanding the when, the where and the how, opening up more channels through which writing-related tasks and experiences can flow.

Sometimes I need to focus on a single project and push everything else aside. Presently I’m trying to figure out what the next big piece is going to be. Two new novels are vying for attention. Some very insistent poetry is in the works. And the dining room table is looking for a new home. I jot down the details of an appointment to view a house.

Note: Cozy=small / Character=windows might be painted shut / Heritage=at least they won’t tear it down.

Suzanne Chiasson is a Vancouver poet and novelist with a background in theatre. Her debut novel Tacet is to be published by Guernica Editions in the fall of 2019.

My (small press) writing day : Rebecca Anne Banks

. . . “blue, blue . . .” I gradually wake out of sleep, it is still dark, check my cell phone it is 4:12 a.m. I trundle to the washroom and then out into the kitchen, pull a pear out of the fridge, wash it and cut it up into a bowl, pour out the last of the raspberry juice into a mug, draw a cup of cold water from the tap, put the kettle on for tea.  I head back to the washroom with a couple of cups, and put Iodine drops into the cup of water, it is only supposed to be one drop, but it always splashes a little more, I take some medz and a vitamin, which I crunch, secretly wishing for those tasty liquid vitamins we used to have when we were kids. I head into the main room and fire up the computer in front of the large double doors/windows that look out on the balcony and a very large tree, this morning covered in snow in the darkness. I talk to Tango Blue and caress his ears, but just in my mind as he still won’t let me pet him, he is a Rescue Cat. I begin my morning computer ritual of reading my 2 main Hotmail accounts, Facebook, Craigslist (for Missed Connections, Pets, Apartment Rentals – Coops and Lofts, Antiques), then on to New Adventures of Queen Victoria (and I laugh a little) and then on to Pearls Before Swine (and I laugh a little more). All the while munching and drinking and watching the windows as the sky changes colours with the rising sun. Throughout the day I write wisps of poetry in my notebook . . . 

“Barbizon blue,

sunshine heart

grey and grey

clouds

calling Autumn . . .”

 . . . I look at my writing schedule and then go back to bed. Six hours later I wake up, go to the kitchen for another glass of water. And back to the computer. First priority is Subterranean Blue Poetry, every month the magazine must be htmled in English and French, Book Review ads must be added to Subterranea . . . and The Book Reviewer, and this month’s journal needs to be Indexed. Then 2 Book Reviews must be written. We choose our books for Book Reviews from the latest, yet rare buys from Amazon or from The Word Bookstore (an indubitable social haunt, known as a great place for a date or a Christmas soiree with a fantastical selection of writings) or from the Chapbooks sent from the subscription to rob mclennan’s publishing house. 

Occasionally some beautiful Poet launching a book of poetry gets in touch and pays us (me and Tango) $25 for a Book Review (we dance). Then we look at clients, for poetry book publishing, the Editing/Formatting/Uploading of poetry manuscripts, the creation of Book Covers, the writing of Book Reviews, the launch of social media ads and sometimes the creation of WebSites. And occasionally looking out and up at the sky . . .

“blueberries,

blue encarta

I wander”

. . . Then we look to the publishing of our own books, French translations, WebSite upgrades, updating and creating the series of Subterranean Blue journal mockups for poetry, photos, Featured Poets, Missed Connections, Of Poetic Interest . . . so that when that month comes up to publish, all that is left to do is the html and the Book Reviews. I check emails for submissions throughout the day. Someone gets in touch on Facebook from the African archipelago, I ask for a submission, and he sends me 6 beautiful black and white photos, I excitedly accept 2 for publication and promise to send along payment soonest. Two days before I heard from someone in India who emailed wondering when her submission is being published, I had said the winter 2018.  I told her she was being published in January 2019 and it was technically the winter 2018, being from India I suspect she doesn’t understand that winter is from November to March, the flow of the season and hope she will accept my apologies. I love the Inbox, on special days I find poetry (o’, yes) and art (o’ yes, yes), all submissions and enquiries are read . . .

“is he the geist man?

love affairs

are for Poets

the traveling Muse

services the room”

 . . . I check my list of Subterranean Blue mockups to find that we are partially planned into 2020. (O’ yes!). I do a backup of the January 2019 Subterranean Blue Poetry html Issue, making certain to add 2019 to the January date in the attention line, just to remind myself that I am nearly 60 years old and not yet married with 2 children, do not own a home, do not own a Jeremy Mann painting or a Montauk sofa, have not appeared on the cover of The Rolling Stone . . . and attempting to accentuate the positive, remember I do have some antique chairs I picked up last Summer. I look out at the sky . . .

“brings love and poetry and blue

a bottle of wine

a flower,

a poem

cast upon the waters, blue”

. . . Somewhere in the miasma of work I head out to the kitchen and put on a pot of homemade spaghetti, frying up the red peppers, onion and garlic, opening a can of stewed tomates and tomato paste. I open the can of cat food from the cupboard and head into the main room, filling up Tango Blue’s dish. Pick up the water bowl and go back to the kitchen and clean the bowl refilling with water. I head back into the main room and put the water bowl back beside the plate of food and talk to the cat, caressing his ears with my mind. I head back to the kitchen, stir the spaghetti sauce and take out half a garlic clove from the fridge, cutting it up, 3 cloves of garlic into some butter in the wok, let sizzle.

“a Westphalian strip house

the joy clips”

I head back to the computer. I head back to the kitchen, spread the garlic butter over a couple of pieces of grain bread, cut up some cheese and place over the bread slices, wrapping in foil and put in the oven. I bring a bowl of spaghetti sauce with the garlic bread back to the computer and sit and eat as I wander through the Internet. We have run out of cat treats, so I hurriedly suit up and head out into the darkness of evening to the Dollar Store. I pick up a few supplies, some sponges, some cans of coconut milk, some notebooks, some really cheap pens (that I later find don’t work), some cat litter, some cat food and of course the much-loved cat treats. We head back out into the night and around the corner home.

“beef rack

lives, lives of the Redeemer

reliquaries, that rest”

I call out to Tango Blue, kiss his ears in my mind. I go look at his dish and he has spread the kibble on the floor making a mote around the chunk of fish cat food. I tell the cat I have some treats for him tonight. Cat must have treats. I head to the kitchen take a pear from the fridge, wash it and cut it up into a bowl.  I take the dessert back to the computer and proceed to contemplate work, wouldn’t it be nice to do some Kintsugi Quilt Repair in the evenings, if I could just schedule everything. Tango Blue curls up on the futon and later comes over to kiss my hands, I give him treats.  I take out my notebook and begin to write into the night . . .

“o’ lonely girl

o’ lonely girl

am I calling you?

Barbizon  . . .”

                           zzz

                                     zzzz  . . . “Barbizon” . . .

                                                            zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . “blue” . . .

                                                                                                                            zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 37 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, a guide to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a family cookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has 10 books awaiting publication with </u> Z is for Hospital</u> writing. She has produced 3 CD`s of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's of music awaiting production.  She is the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry, the CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records, the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts.