Letters from the New World @lettersfromthenewworld-blog - Tumblr Blog

My Writing Process- Conception

I have never really talked about my writing process but I see this blog as an opportunity to pull back the curtain. Writing is an art but an art that is more science than magic. Putting words on a blank page is a matter of conception and execution. That is all that writing is. Every writer has their own ways of accomplishing those two things.

In this post I am going to concentrate on conception. Almost all of my ideas come in two distinct ways: a title or tiny bit of story.

I mostly write from titles. A combination of words, collective sound or provocative image/concept arrives. From there I try to understand what that title means. In that process story, visuals and characters start to come. Imagine a jigsaw puzzle where the picture is complete somewhere in the brain but the pieces are scattered in front of your eyes. This creation period is my favorite part of writing. It is thrilling and challenging. I get to push myself to the very limits of my imagination and experience epiphany after epiphany as ideas come rushing out.

The other way I do it is to stumble upon a piece of a story. That piece could be an image, an emotion or plot point. I run with whatever it is to see if it has potential. An emotion, for instance, can quickly form a mood, tone and personality for a work. The best pieces are like the spark of a tiny big bang. Fragments of a poem or story will appear and connect. They quickly form the skeleton from which I can figure out if the piece is worth the execution.

The latter method comes far less often than the title approach. Whichever one I use produces a lot of material but much of the creation stage ideas disappear in the execution. I will explain why in that post. What is important to note is that almost no creative process is wrong. The one or ones that get the very best out of you are worth keeping. For me, my processes naturally came through time and perhaps as a rejection of the notion of brainstorming. The smallest things have created and will continue to create my best work. Find your kinds of sparks and you be astounded by what follows.

#justin powell #writing process

Poetry- Space Junk

Do you feel the distant death?

In the collapse of constellations,

In the fervent fury of a star killer

That abyssal gasp of black?

In the galactic turmoil

When swirls lock and waltz,

In the death dance,

Far-sight watchers flock

Seek a kiss from an apocalypse.

Scientists dream up an onslaught,

A comet or satellite cascade.

Was it sadism or astronomy?

#justin powell #poetry #space junk

Poem- Letter Writers of America

And you made no enemy, but the prisoners seek a penance,

they seek an audience.

And you made no enemy, but the thieves seek a word,

they seek an ear with the warden.

We are the letter writers of America.

We’re asleep in her asylum.

We are the abandoned, marooned of America.

And you ensured no wrath, but the winds are picking up,

their sand ships have taken enough.

And you’re ensured no wrath, but this poet has nearly given up,

your love has become far too rough.

A letter from the inside,

a letter from the new world,

a desperate call from afar,

Proclaiming it the moment of escape.

America’s in love,

a prisoner as poet jilts the muse,

our love will claim two victims.

loosen the chains, nearly fleeing with the caravan.

Are you America’s sanctuary?

As the sun betrays the day does she hide away in you?

A ghost ranch, an abandoned town,

will she be waiting and allow for an audience?

We’re burning paper; let her thorns be torn down.

We’re adrift in her ghost town.

We are the banished, enclosed of America.

Are you America’s safety haven?

A million paper airplanes ready to fly the Atlantic,

a million captured form a spiritual caravan.

We are the letter writers of America.

We’re drifting, caught by the coastal crypt.

We are the abandoned without an answer.

All scatter betrayed by a bitter jealousy,

America, our love will claim two victims,

every time, every time.

#poetry #letter writers of america #justin powell

Poem- Killjoy

Wraith of religion, rhythm in division,

extroversion condition,

prescription determined.

Introversion is exploitation,

desires and perversions imprisoned.

It’s a suffering whine that occupies my time.

It’s the eternal rhyme that urges me blind.

All apologizes but marketing is king,

the rhyme is divine

when the city is defined by neon aligned.

The message is numbness,

impracticalities,

collective madness,

insanity out of insecurity,

the world’s a killjoy,

the collective vision of perfection

though the means lack correlation.

Prescription determined,

pleasure aversion,

evasion from the levity of life.

It’s a secluding sign that deifies the numb.

It’s the subliminal that castrates the fun.

All apologizes but marketing is king,

the rhyme is divine

when the city is defined by neon aligned.

#poetry #killjoy #justin powell

Flash Fiction- Heathen at the Event Horizon

‘A succubus of stars’ and ‘a vengeful mistress in black’ were both poetics to once describe the phenomenon that now consumed the light below him, above him. The astronaut could not tell direction anymore. In a place far flung and beyond the familiar blue dot, he simply approached the starless flat of darkness. He was like an arrow shot from Earth. Quivering, quaking, the horizontal movement of an arrow matched his struggle but the destination was already certain. No wind, no object between was present to alter the trajectory. No one knew what would happen once inside a black hole. The arrow simply believed the endgame was bleak.

A religious man with a flair for the poetic might have seen this as the pupil of God, ever watchful, the entrance to the soul of the creator. The arrow was far from religious and even further from faith. No one was watching out for him but the schemes and math of science. These schemes had worked to produce the space suit he wore. The taut white of the tightly woven fabric and plastic blisters of control panels protected him from the vacuum. Four semicircle thrusters held to the corners of his back’s large oxygen pack.

Desperate to evade he set those thrusters to maximum. The ignition was visible and every particle sped towards the hole. The ion thrusters pushed but the pull of the spiral was greater. Every previous attempt had failed and the current one proved as folly as the rest. If any eye were watching they would see his savior, science, both abandoning and consuming him.

The color of the astronaut’s suit began to bleed. Bright white grew grey and even darker as the approach continued. He pressed the greatest computer known to man to its limits. The human mind, his mind, flashed technical schematics of the suit. Like photographs he examined every function within the human masterwork of the modern space suit.

Time slowed as the power of the black hole distorted everything. Ages were going by in what was mere seconds of experience to him. The images in his mind stopped flashing. There was no escape. His breathing which had been slowed to preserve oxygen now grew fast and heavy. His sun shield, the black visor over his helmet, was kept shut and no attempt to turn to face the black hole was made. With no fight left in him, he screamed. Space could not hear him. No human could hear him but he screamed anyways. It was the longest scream in human history. It stretched with the distortion of time.

The arrow no longer whipped from side to side. Images within his mind flashed again. The struggle had ended but the synapses connected as many memories as they could before the event horizon: the sound of rain, which had soothed him to sleep in the worst of times, the feeling of weightlessness, which had completely left him, and the feel of lips, the parting kiss before blastoff.

He reached the event horizon. The scream had ceased and become a gasp, an intake of air just at the moment of contact. No god waited for him. No regrets at that. What was an atheist’s afterlife but the silence after the cacophony? It was a thought had long ago but failed to recall as he scattered atom from atom.

***

Eyes opened to a white light then clarity from the blindness. The final message, perhaps to no one but himself: “it is a haven of stars.”

#justin powell #flash fiction #heathen at the event horizon

Opening Lines Experiment

If it were not for titles, opening lines would be the most underrated aspect of good fiction. They set mood for an entire work. I uncovered an experiment from a year ago using opening lines. With no intention of following them with a story, I tried to create compelling openers. Finding them interesting, I decided to post them here.

Blissfully taut in the gravitational hold, the marauder mimicked the twilight fold.

In the nightlight gaze of a night-flight moon, the quaking ocean hid the blue marooned.

The pendulum imparted a terminal gaze as the remembrance of a waning of life recalled yesterdays.

Midnight played the tease for the beaconing sea breeze.

The mysterious ways of the heat wave had made ciders out of her silken skin.

Write what you know is the cruelest thing that I have ever been taught.

The whole of human life is a leap of faith so I leapt into the ravine.

The ring of fire had been usurped in magnificence by the familiar and once welcoming light of the moon.

#justin powell #writing #opening lines

Poetry- Broken Cabaret

Sending letters to strangers,

sending a prayer across the telephone line,

seeking attention in a society of television screens.

Just this once you wanted to see a miracle not disproved.

A sonnet for someone, a song for a smoky bar,

a soliloquy screamed instead of whispered,

a screen to see yourself, no more mirrors capturing someone else,

a symptom starved by the hunger to hear your own voice.

Just this once you wanted to foresee your future.

Just this once you wanted to watch your life unfold before new eyes.

Surrendering to trust, giving the reins to

the fluttering fireflies and locusts in the dark,

out there in their homes and crumbling nests.

A puppet freed from the strings stumbles through the channels,

a few turns of the dial away—from your broken cabaret.

#justin powell #poetry #broken cabaret

Poetry- Earthling

The universe dreams in ultraviolet,

volatile and violent veil,

the pinprick night given life.

A spark, dormant made light,

a thrust and a flood…

an earthling remains.

The ethereal made feral,

a pulsing and a blood—

Zen archer particles,

a nearly infinite arrow volley.

Planets ride the ripples they bring.

Zenith and apex collision,

formulation in the ancient oceans…

an earthling remains.

#justin powell #poetry #Earthling

On Paris and Silence

* What has happened in Paris should not be seen as a rallying cry. The tragedy is a continuation of a struggle that has existed since the start of human communication. From that time it has been free speech against those who seek to silence. The terrorists have not succeeded in silencing. Lives have been lost, as have voices, but there was no victory here, not even a pyric one. The cartoons will continue. The satire will continue. They will multiply until the images become deafening. Violence can only increase the volume of that which it seeks to silence. No state, religion or ideology has monopoly over speech. Paris is not a rallying cry, it is another wound. Humanity knows only one way to bleed, and that is as a flood of expression. Will there be silence today, tomorrow or the days after? No, only a cacophony of human voices.

#justin powell #jesuischarlie #free speech

Serenading the Space Dog

Julia watched the stars to see movement and her best friend streak across the sky. She shivered in the cold air despite being bundled up in purple and pink. The hood of her jacket was down and revealed two parallel ponytails. They bounced as she hopped to warm herself. She turned to her grandmother sitting down against a tree on this hill.

“When will we see him, grandma?”

“Be patient. Is your pipe flute ready? He’ll need you to lead him home.”

“Yep, I practiced the melody you taught me. I did it all night until my mommy and daddy said it was bedtime.”

The grandmother smiled in the nippy air. The chill bit like the bugs fled during the winter but she would always find a smile for Julia. She took hold of a pipe flute from her bag. Its many tubes ascended in height from left to right. She blew through it and a melody came. Julia took out her pipe flute and tried to repeat it.

“Let’s have a little practice, dear.”

The melody for tonight was played first by the grandmother and replicated by Julia. They continued a few more times until a swaying Julia became lost in the music. The grandmother put her pipe flute down and started to clap to the melody. Her granddaughter bobbed while moving side to side with eyes closed. After a minute of this she rolled up her sleeve to see her watch.

“Any time now, Julia.”

The little girl opened her eyes, took her mouth from the flute and grinned with excitement. She turned around and ran back to the hill’s peak. Her eyes scanned the sky. She could see airplanes and stars but no satellites. Then she caught site of a light moving slowly moving across the night.

“I see Raleigh, grandma!”

“Good. Play the little melody. I am sure he is listening and waiting to hear you lead him home. Our canine astronaut is counting on you.”

Julia put the pipe flute to her lips and blew the little tune again. Her grandmother watched as she played without blinking. She so desperately wanted her dog back that she would play for hours if necessary. The pain when Raleigh went missing days ago was so great that it gave birth to a comforting lie. The grandmother never wanted to fool her or use her innocence against her. When the parents found Raleigh’s body along the side of a road, desperation set in.

“Keep on playing dear. I am sure he hears you. The space agency always equips their space dogs with only the best listening devices.”

Julia continued to play the tune. It may have been naïve of her or perhaps her trust in her in grandmother was too great but she believed those words absolutely. She played until she lost sight of the passing satellite behind barely visible clouds. The flute was removed from her lips and she turned back to her grandmother.

“Will Raleigh win a medal when he gets back?”

“I don’t know but when you go into space you can look different when you come back. Raleigh is a mongrel. That means he is a mixed breed and they can easily change.”

“Will he remember me?”

“Oh, my little stargazer, come over here and warm up.”

Julia walked over to her grandmother and snuggled up close. They watched the stars together until they caught sight of a shooting star. It raced downward.

“Is that Raleigh landing?”

“I am sure it is. He must have heard you and knew that it was safe to land.”

“Should we make a wish too?”

“Yeah, let’s wish him a safe return.”

“No grandma, I wish I could stay here all night. The space agency is looking after Raleigh.”

With that Julia closed her eyes and dozed off. The grandmother was left to remember when she watched for the space dog as a little girl. With her mother she watched for Laika in Sputnik 2. The Russian space dog never made it home but Raleigh’s replacement was waiting there for Julia’s return. For now, Julia and her grandmother cuddled beneath the night lights as stargazers in a beautiful lie.

#flash fiction #writing #justinpowell #Misc Monday

Introduction and Blog Schedule

Welcome to my Tumblr Blog, Letters from the New World! My name is Justin Powell and I am an author. My home is Omaha, Nebraska but my writing is not limited to the American Midwest. Instead, I write in almost any genre and form, whether it is poetry about America or fiction about another world.

With this blog I hope to provide an outlet for some of my writing, mainly the misfits and experiments. I also want to talk about inspirations and influences such as other art forms and of course literature. There is room too for any other artistic things I wish to talk about. Finally, I will post any news about my writing here.

The schedule for my Blog will be Miscellaneous on Monday, Inspirations and Influences on Wednesday and a serialized story on Fridays. The serialized story will be unplanned writing from week to week. Neither you nor I will know where it goes next. The schedule will start on the 5th of January, 2015.

Happy New Year!

#introduction #Justin Powell #blog schedule

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