If they tell you that the only chance you have left in your career in poetry is the sonnet, the sonnet prison, why you do not have waste time demonstrating in favor of free verse. Try to make the best sonnet in the world, spend the night trying sonetos.Sonetos good, with the experience that gives the practice and passion, can read fluently and seem to free verse.
Hernán Casciari
Hernán Casciari
This morning I had one of those classes unforgettable. My student fiction writer made me read his latest production. His story was an exercise of free writing, without intervention of any teacher, not even me, "to imprison the inspiration of the student with the trite slogan that reads" the story must begin with the phrase ... Maximum 350 words.
After a tour of his fictional world, I begin my actual work. Analysis, suggestions and whatever else interests me: make the students see the path from the first class, that of covert protest "I have to" write up this one in which "wants" to try to write.
Then I make my favorite question of the process: how did the story? intend a racconto of Genesis, to make a discovery of patterns to tell time. For patterns, I mean those rituals that have little to do with conscious plans or deadlines. More interesting is that moment where the mind, and fired, moving on rails, and suddenly the window is the name of the station: it is here. Here is a story.
Then you go down, search bar and writing desk. Fast. Anywhere. But do not go away, feeling the relief that, as noted, I have it. That's the story. Missing final. In a later, quieter, rereading, and writes down long before deciding that this is the last sentence - the slam-go that the story is over between her fingers. The final outlines the eyes.
on these things dealt with the conversation in my class today, when suddenly, making a mental portfolio of the stages of writing that my students had experienced, I realized that he, ironically, under my tutelage, had solved my own questions about how to express some things. Because before the ideas are crowded, crouched and, sometimes, were preludes, sketches for paintings to paint some day. Until today.
then asked how he managed to write now. He replied: "Now try
start by writing something similar to what I meant. Then as you get there.
talked about the difficulties of expressing in English when you spend reading and writing the English, swallowing up the accent. The language itself is sometimes a jail after such travel literature Anglo-Saxon. At the end of class, we said goodbye, hoping that a rereading of Horacio Quiroga be our way or reveal a secret existence.
felt, while walking to my house, relief from the effect of the conversation. Conversation that took place at school or in the office, but a third , for that matter, a bar in Buenos Aires. A neutral location, such as train station, surrounded by strangers and engrossed in intimate conversation with a book. It is there, precisely where lies a rhythm and flow of consciousness. Wherever it appears that the mind writes, rolling over right words, although known, were hitherto closed self-expression.
impotence you feel that it seems impossible that this happen and make it look so different. 
While writing his meaningless comments heard: 
