Why write? Is writing making?
What is telling? What is showing?
What are clichés in writing, and how do I subvert them?
Are artists' writings taken seriously?
How do I know when to stop writing?
How do I start writing?
Making the Written Word will investigate and encourage the use of writing as a relevant outlet of expression at all stages of artists’ and designers’ studio practice. Each of the four sessions will aim to answer specific questions through readings, writing exercises, and discussion. This blog is a forum for the discussion generated and a place to leave references for each other.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Seneca: Moral Epistles on Friendship
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Marriage & Relationships from a 20-Something's Perspective
Monday, February 28, 2011
Poetry with a square: Eclat, by Caroline Bergvall

I got this reading in my contemporary poetry class, and I realized that it all somehow ends up dealing a square. We had discussed writing about squares in relation to one of Bernadette Mayer's writing exercises. In this case, the poetry takes place inside and outside of the square, sometimes breaking the boundaries or interrupting them. Each image changes the mood of the page.
It seems to be about inside vs. outside and fear of transitional spaces?
Eclat, by Caroline Bergvall
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Also,
To finish a thing, that is to keep on finishing a thing, that is to be one going on finishing so that something is a thing that any one can see is a finished thing is something. To finish a thing so that any one can know that that thing is a finished thing is something.
To make a pretty thing so that any one can feel that the thing is a pretty thing is something.
To begin a thing that any one can see is begun is something. To begin a pretty thing so that any one can see that a pretty thing has been begun is something.
p. 73-74 Lectures in America, Gertrude Stein
SL
http://bombsite.com/issues/85/articles/2583
Brilliant
Listen to 'Ride', OH MY HEAVENS IT IS AMAZING.
Not sure if Phoebe already posted this or not, but AMAZING
Friday, February 18, 2011
Maria Fusco talks about artists' books
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Hesitation

Hesitation
She didn’t even give a sign of hesitation,
a sign when they asked her
her free, true, and definitive will
found, herself once more,
didn’t even give a sign.
She (when they asked her),
free, true, and definitive.
Since her birth she didn’t even give
a sign of hesitation,
her true will since her birth,
her definitive will.
Monday, February 14, 2011
We Are Grammar
One Star Press - Ryan Gander
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
An Open Letter To My Only One-Night Stand
Excerpt from An Open Letter to My One-Night Stand, by Ryan O’Connell. O’Connell is one of my favorite writers on Thought Catalogue, composed of a collection of writers who together create exactly what the name stands for.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Susan Anderson: a desperate secret agent
I received this email from a Susan Anderson. I can't say I know her or her work at Braintrainers, but I like the way she writes. Susan is convinced, and attempts to convince me that we know each other. The sheer range of the approaches she uses to invoke familiarity ends up blowing her cover; we have clearly never met. Regardless of whether she is a disembodied spam email or not, she is all the more mysterious. What could her incentive be for this flailing attempt at contact? I want to know more.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Oh man, I love all the stuff that has been posted lately!
Waiting
A Poem by Faith Wilding
Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .
Waiting for someone to come in
Waiting for someone to hold me
Waiting for someone to feed me
Waiting for someone to change my diaper
Waiting . . .Waiting to scrawl, to walk, waiting to talk
Waiting to be cuddled
Waiting for someone to take me outside
Waiting for someone to play with me
Waiting for someone to take me outside
Waiting for someone to read to me, dress me, tie my shoes
Waiting for Mommy to brush my hair
Waiting for her to curl my hair
Waiting to wear my frilly dress
Waiting to be a pretty girl
Waiting to grow up
Waiting . . .Waiting for my breasts to develop
Waiting to wear a bra
Waiting to menstruate
Waiting to read forbidden books
Waiting to stop being clumsy
Waiting to have a good figure
Waiting for my first date
Waiting to have a boyfriend
Waiting to go to a party, to be asked to dance, to dance close
Waiting to be beautiful
Waiting for the secret
Waiting for life to begin
Waiting . . .Waiting to be somebody
Waiting to wear makeup
Waiting for my pimples to go away
Waiting to wear lipstick, to wear high heels and stockings
Waiting to get dressed up, to shave my legs
Waiting to be pretty
Waiting . . .Waiting for him to notice me, to call me
Waiting for him to ask me out
Waiting for him to pay attention to me
Waiting for him to fall in love with me
Waiting for him to kiss me, touch me, touch my breasts
Waiting for him to pass my house
Waiting for him to tell me I’m beautiful
Waiting for him to ask me to go steady
Waiting to neck, to make out, waiting to go all the way
Waiting to smoke, to drink, to stay out late
Waiting to be a woman
Waiting . . .Waiting for my great love
Waiting for the perfect man
Waiting for Mr. Right
Waiting . . .Waiting to get married
Waiting for my wedding day
Waiting for my wedding night
Waiting for sex
Waiting for him to make the first move
Waiting for him to excite me
Waiting for him to give me pleasure
Waiting for him to give me an orgasm
Waiting . . .Waiting for him to come home, to fill my time
Waiting . . .Waiting for my baby to come
Waiting for my belly to swell
Waiting for my breasts to fill with milk
Waiting to feel my baby move
Waiting for my legs to stop swelling
Waiting for the first contractions
Waiting for the contractions to end
Waiting for the head to emerge
Waiting for the first scream, the afterbirth
Waiting to hold my baby
Waiting for my baby to suck my milk
Waiting for my baby to stop crying
Waiting for my baby to sleep through the night
Waiting for my breasts to dry up
Waiting to get my figure back, for the stretch marks to go away
Waiting for some time to myself
Waiting to be beautiful again
Waiting for my child to go to school
Waiting for life to begin again
Waiting . . .Waiting for my children to come home from school
Waiting for them to grow up, to leave home
Waiting to be myself
Waiting for excitement
Waiting for him to tell me something interesting, to ask me how I feel
Waiting for him to stop being crabby, reach for my hand, kiss me good morning
Waiting for fulfillment
Waiting for the children to marry
Waiting for something to happen
Waiting . . .Waiting to lose weight
Waiting for the first gray hair
Waiting for menopause
Waiting to grow wise
Waiting . . .Waiting for my body to break down, to get ugly
Waiting for my flesh to sag
Waiting for my breasts to shrivel up
Waiting for a visit from my children, for letters
Waiting for my friends to die
Waiting for my husband to die
Waiting . . .Waiting to get sick
Waiting for things to get better
Waiting for winter to end
Waiting for the mirror to tell me that I’m old
Waiting for a good bowel movement
Waiting for the pain to go away
Waiting for the struggle to end
Waiting for release
Waiting for morning
Waiting for the end of the day
Waiting for sleep
Waiting . .
Sunday, February 6, 2011
frida kahlo
Friday, February 4, 2011
"Ursonography" by Jaap Blonk
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Cheap Thrills

Still Life with Oysters & Lemon

Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Sylvia Plath poem..

Wuthering Heights
The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
Grey as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among the horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights.
I'm always interested in how writers and artists reference one another - what they choose to take from other works.
Gleam like small change.
Drawing for writers!
conversations between eliasson and irwin
Fia Blackstrom interview/piece?
Flash Art n.264 January – February 09
Fia sent Anthony a recycled text, he then filled in the questions. The text went back and forth and each fiddled with the other’s questions and answers.
Interesting ideas for books
Monday, January 31, 2011
Favorite Passage
Frank-Film by Frank Mouris
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Leonard Cohen
Avalanche:
Well I stepped into an avalanche,
it covered up my soul;
when I am not this hunchback that you see,
I sleep beneath the golden hill.
You who wish to conquer pain,
you must learn, learn to serve me well.
You strike my side by accident
as you go down for your gold.
The cripple here that you clothe and feed
is neither starved nor cold;
he does not ask for your company,
not at the centre, the centre of the world.
When I am on a pedestal,
you did not raise me there.
Your laws do not compel me
to kneel grotesque and bare.
I myself am the pedestal
for this ugly hump at which you stare.
You who wish to conquer pain,
you must learn what makes me kind;
the crumbs of love that you offer me,
they're the crumbs I've left behind.
Your pain is no credential here,
it's just the shadow, shadow of my wound.
I have begun to long for you,
I who have no greed;
I have begun to ask for you,
I who have no need.
You say you've gone away from me,
but I can feel you when you breathe.
Do not dress in those rags for me,
I know you are not poor;
you don't love me quite so fiercely now
when you know that you are not sure,
it is your turn, beloved,
it is your flesh that I wear.
Friday, January 28, 2011
We Feel Fine, by Jonathan Harris
Monday, January 24, 2011
Christian Bok - Eunoia
and/or
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Ummm, Noise
Call for submissions!
Last year I curated and constructed a collaborative, hand-sewn, one-of-a-kind book for Bernadette Mayer, with submissions from artists/writers around the country. This project led me, as Drunken Boat's fiction editor, to conceptualize a larger folio of work. The folio will be published in Drunken Boat's Issue 14 (summer 2011), and below is the call for submissions (drafted with Bernadette Mayer):
Call for Submissions: The Bernadette Mayer Folio: Bernadette Mayer's writing experiments, from the 1970s to the present, challenge artists to change the world. We are looking for art and writing that responds to this notion and/or to Bernadette Mayer. Your response can be written, performance-based, filmed, recorded, visual. We seek responses through any medium, and encourage media projects. Consider ways in which your response might operate at the intersection of conceptual art, performance and experimental work. Deadline 15 April, 2011.
Please pass along to writers and artists who might be interested in submitting/creating something for this folio. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Best wishes,
Deborah Poe
http://www.deborahpoe.com/
www.drunkenboat.com
Friday, January 21, 2011
A heartbreaking and wonderful piece for anyone who has not already seen it:
Richard Serra
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
"Recipe Art" by Mira Schor
Recipe Art
Mira Schor
p. 230-231 A Decade of Negative Thinking by Mira Schor
Embodied in the high-concept, one- or two-sentence description, the recipe ingredients usually include something from the real cleverly juxtaposed with something else from the real, or something made with a material from the real not ordinarily an art material; something that references the real; something made from something else (e.g., a minimalist sculpture made of chocolate, a similarly monumental cube made of millions of wooden toothpicks, Richard Serra—leaning-plates made of red lipstick, etc.). Recipe: something from popular culture + something from art history + something appropriated + something weird or expressive = useful promotional sound bite. The work is selected for review because it can be written about efficiently. It is not necessary to see the piece.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Welcome to MTWW
Please feel free to post any writing related things you come across here. We hope you will use this space. We've suggested some links and books that are worth checking out. There are also some articles to read and some more loosely writing-related sites.
We're looking forward to meeting you soon,
Mimi + Phoebe