Faulkner wrote on walls.
Melville locked himself in hotel rooms.
Hemingway stood, typing on a shelf the whole time.
Kerouac inscribed scrolls.
Thompson shot at his typewriter.
Sexton noveled in two weeks, out one for doctors and despair.
Hugo wrote naked.
Allen long-handed on legal pads.
Lewis methodologized from bathroom breaks to beers.
Should we, like Ibsen, frame our enemies’ faces upon the wall to watch as we write?
Should we mechanize words only on old typewriters?
Should we drink ’til we die?
How to write but to write,
But by writing breed more writing and more liking for writing?
We must, I suppose, find our own weird ways.
So I say: