by Christos Polydorou

I stayed up till three a.m. writing a book. As a mystic, I find this hour especially curious. My computer froze at two minutes to three a.m., and I lost my shit, but then I remembered it was not 1998, and that Microsoft 10 had probably auto-saved all the work I had been doing for four hours. I thought, I should probably go to bed, nothing artful can be done now. I was so wrong. I wrote for another half hour until half past three and wrote such oblique, poetic, startling dialogue I looked away stunned at myself. Where is all this beauty coming from? Dear Adonis, carry me safely to the beginning of all of this. Muses thirteen, I know this is an especially distant voice from where you are, but I am sure you can hear it, or else, how, before me, any of it? None of my writing past present and future would also have not been possible if it weren’t for boys with guitars in recording studios. What inspires you? What turns on the artist in you?

PS Whenever I meet a whiny artist who thinks it is part of the artistic process to complain how difficult it is, I tell them, darling, Art is the gymnasium of the gods. You have got to get over your self-defeatist attitude, slap some water on your face, and start building the power of your prose like you build the power of your body. The sooner the better, love. Art needs us and we need art, always.