01.
I used to write zines, projects digestible enough to finish in a few bites.
I’d pick a whim and extrapolate. No one expected profound, wise, or thorough. I’d finish quick, then head to Kinko’s where my friends worked swing or else sneak back into the office after hours. Stolen copies were a zine writer’s greatest gift.
I did it all myself, no high production standards I couldn’t meet on my own. The xerox did its serviceable job. Everything looked grainy. You couldn’t make out features on faces in photos. If there was a margin to fill, I’d scribble in it with my Sharpie (extra fine point). My fingers would be inky glue-stick grey by the end.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be writing about. I aimed to write about my life, but didn’t yet know what made my life mine. I could observe details and entertainingly relate them in my own chirpy rhythm, though couldn’t tell what, if anything, they meant. I exaggerated superficialities to flaunt their flatness, and tried to make that an authorly trademark. I wasn’t as deep as I wanted to be. It would be years before I could look back and cringe with fondness. Still, I kept writing about myself, material to back up my claims: I am who I say I am. Here’s the folded, stapled proof.
Adults write books. That’s the grown-up way. Anything less isn’t serious. Essays and stories get their respect, I suppose, provided they’re published somewhere good. Only the truly avant-garde or super-brainy may claim “poet” as their title, their cryptic words and busted syntax admired by aficionados, if not devoured by too wide a readership. Where do I fit?
I was a professional writer. I got paid to put words together. It was a job. I met deadlines. I made content. I was even fortunate enough to earn a few fans. I mostly enjoyed it.
Now, I’m not even sure I want to write at all. I’m presently investigating the desire, but not yet ready to dedicate to any big idea. I’m wondering what my future as a writer might look like. I’m in between incarnations.
So, when I tell you I’ve been writing again, this is what we’re left with.
haste…
audacity…
daring insignificance…
a freedom I haven’t written from for many many years.
I used to make zines
scraps of writing
cut with scissors and pasted with glue
copied folded stapled
passed around to show a slice of me
look I am creative
I don’t just smoke weed and watch tv
I write and doodle and snap photos of freeways and trash
I am clever I am cute please love me
the in-between*
© 2020 Barry Perlman