Last night, couple of fellow writers and I went to Hot-Sauced Words. One doesn’t write poetry (but likes to have it read to her), and the other is a brilliant poet. I think we all got something from the evening.
We stayed to hear A.F. Moritz read. He was excellent, I thought. Very much deserving of all the awards he’s received. We had to leave before Alexandra Oliver read, which is something I do regret. Did consider ditching work this morning just so I could stay for the entire evening.
However, my current lifestyle leaves me in a position where I get to hear a lot of… unprocessed writing. Words are carefully chosen, but the writers don’t have the experience nor the age to produce something perfect. I prefer this type of writing to something which has had several editors slash it to bits. I prefer the rawness, the imperfection.
Perhaps a better term would be “indie” writing.
Before the professional writers read last night, a handful of people came up to the open mic. Of the seven readers, I only tuned one of them out.
I didn’t tune out Nichola Ward. She, I think, is my new favourite poet. Okay, maybe second favourite, ’cause it’s difficult to be better than James Stephens.