“What do you write about?”
Occasionally, at parties, people I half-know will throw handfuls of cashews into their mouths and go, “so, Tim, what do you write poems about?”
And while they’re chewing, I’ll stare pensively into my drink, slosh it around a little, eventually saying something like, “quit bogarting those nuts.”
It’s not so much that I don’t like discussing what I write – really, what else do I have? – it’s just that I have no idea what the poems are about.
Many things appear in my poems: ones I love, or have loved, favorite foods, seasons, animals, articles of clothing, colors, smells, fears, memories. But no single something ever dominates a single poem. And I’m okay with that, except for when Cashew Hands is interrogating me by the punch bowl.
If I could, I would screen this video to them as a dramatic representation of what happens when I try to write about something specific.
But until I have a smart phone, that’s not an option. So I’m thinking I need to come up with a canned response for such situations, something that will shut the inquisitors up. Sort of like a tagline for my work. Here are a few:
- “Anything. Everything. Nothing”
- “Your wildest desires. On acid.”
- “The scent of a summer rain hitting hot asphalt.”
- “Candid conversations between God and the moon.”
- “Children laughing while the world burns.”
That’s all I’ve come up with so far.
But what about you, Barkers? What do you write about?
Catheters for rainbows.
Inner monologues of wendigos.
Varying speeds of glaciers.
You are brilliant, Tim Greenup–”Cashew Hands,” “no single something,” delicious phrases to buoy the day.
Ha! I’m in love with “wendigo.” How have I never heard this term? Thanks for exposing me.
Our failures in bending reality to our expectations. Death. Companionship as the only sane response to a very disturbed world. The color beige.
Seriously, though, Jurassic Park reference for the win. You know they’ve confirmed now that dromaeosaurids like the one shown above had feathers? Science is amazing.
Dude, had no idea about the feathers. Though I did once hear they were only like 2.5 feet tall, and not 6. Science. No joke.
My answer to this question is always the same, and deeply unsatisfying: “People.” I also use this answer when telling my children what a particular movies is about, unless the movie is about car/boat chases or explosions or breasts, in which case I say one/some/all of those. But I generally write and read about people, and that’s the best answer I can come up with. Oh, and man’s inhumanity to man.
I think any response to this question is ultimately unsatisfying, and that’s probably what annoys me the most about it, even though it is nice to have people inquire about my work.
The question’s just whack! Jeez!
Increasingly I find myself writing less about anything and more toward things. Playing. My current project is less about the actual content and more about the delivery of that content, about the shift that happens in the space between page and eyes.
Oh, and people.
Myself, myself and myself. Twice about Leyna and once about 9/11.
This made me laugh so much, Tim. Cashew hands!
My answer is always the same, “I write about boys” since it’s basically true.
ps high five for jurassic park.
As a server, I get this question a lot from my customers when I tell them I’m a writer. I think the most well-received response is: the human condition. The well-received response usually includes something like, “that’s interesting” in conjunction with a speculative nod. It’s all bullshit though, because everyone knows all I write about is sex.
You write about dogs sometimes too.
maybe just one dog.
I’m stealing what Tim O’Brien said–the human heart under stress.
I always say, “Elves,” and stare at them while I count to twenty in my head.
Hey quit calling me Cashew Hands.
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I’ve started answering this question with the phrase “sagebrush and death.”