Small Press Publishing Final Project Idea

I would like to create an eco-poetry zine called ‘Planet Romantics.’ It poses a reality where the earth was destroyed by climate change and humanity has had relocate to the cosmos, yet instead of a subsequent era of remorse and sadness, another Romanticism movement begins, where poets wander through space in a vain attempt to use the beauty and depth of the galaxy to illuminate their inner thoughts, pretending like the destruction of Earth never happened. In this reality, humanity ignores the consequences of their greed and seems to regress far into the past despite, or perhaps in response to, living in a bleak future of their own creation.

The poems would be scathingly parodic in tone, a few titles including ‘Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Space Station 6,’ ‘I Wandered Lonely as an Asteroid,’ and ‘Ode to a Protostar.’ Ideally, in mimicking the iconic and over-the-top subjectivism of romanticism, these poems would criticise humans’ ability to prioritise themselves and their art before the political and environmental struggles going on in the world around them. 

Some possible aesthetics I would like to draw upon for this project are the old sci-fi zines of the 1930s and 40s such as The Comet, for their bold, black line art, conveying a clear but old-fashioned sci-fi theme. I was also pondering whether to incorporate elements of William Blake’s etchings into the design, as he wrote, printed, and published his own poetry, epitomising DIY culture.

On Self-Publishing, Fan fiction, and Diaries

Trade in your hands for pens! Lift your head high! Art capitalism abounds!

To make mockery of that which should, by right, be shared and transmitted freely. For leisure, we make our escape to a place where art and censorship shake hands over drinks, a place where literature that barely breaches the surface of mediocrity is applauded for making grating noise instead of the usual radio silence. It is no escape at all.

Artists have climbed atop the Ivory Towers reserved for the philosophers, flaunting their faces at the crowd below. They are the proudest of them all.

‘Artist’ must be the title that crouches behind all names, or be abolished completely. We must strive towards a collectivism of creation.

For everyone creates. From life to death, each human is the author of Something. It is our job to place all works of art on the landscape. Mountains and flowers both point to the sky. One may find that a crag makes a poor backdrop for a daisy.

True art is handed out like roses in the Underground. True art is discovered like feathers on the pavement, created with the forceful, solitary devotion that rendered Galatea.

Art is cleansed by the fires of selfism, solipsism. It gains a cult following of one, and then incidentally many.

For altruistic art is merely religion, and therefore, still selling something.

Write for yourself! Sing purely to hear your own voice! Even as a player swallowed in the crest and heave of an orchestral symphony, you are still first and foremost enjoying the thrill of your instrument.

For all the times art is loud, it must be secretive. It can be shouted, but it may also be nurtured under a single bulb, like a nestle of quail’s eggs that would only suffocate beneath the strength of another’s gaze.

A tree that was not heard falling still shakes the earth beneath our feet.

Our reactionary lives. The synaesthetic, narrative way that only we human beings codify experience — commodified. Corporatised. Weighed on a scale to see which is heaviest.

SHE exists better than HIM.

HE exists better than THEM.

Lies! Collapse the rift between the Published and Humanity! Smash the pedestal on which they stand! They err too, they bleed too! Great art is not conceived to be permitted!

A) Every time an unwilling edit is made, an author dies.

B) Every time someone observes to themselves, ‘the world is perhaps a stage,’ an author is born.

Genius leads to death. Genius leads to suicide. The scent of genius is caught quickly by the crows.

Writing is pure life! It must exist everywhere, because it simply cannot exist nowhere. We must all be Number One Bestsellers. We must all win Booker Prizes. Each of our houses must be carpeted red. We must all picture ourselves reclining in armchairs, smoking on pipes.

A poem. A letter. A scribbled note. An observation lost in conversation.

We, you, are incandescent, setting the world on fire everyday. There is no difference between The Author and You.

Inside Out

My Favorite Work of Nonfiction

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