It’s one of the subtler pressures of writing: the sensation that something – something rather beautiful, perhaps, or useful, or at any rate interesting – is seeking to be written, that it has for some reason chosen you, the writer, as the singular vehicle of its expression, and that if you’re not careful (and crafty) (and ruthless) you’re going to blow it. It’s not the worst feeling in the world – but it’s not very nice either. The poet Les Murray calls it a “painless headache”. How are we to understand it, this weird pre-writing electrical build? Might it be telling us that we are preparing to participate – at a slightly raised level – in reality, which is in its nature a continually and explosively renewed creative act?
Well, maybe. Or maybe it’s Robert’s magic coffee, which he makes every Tuesday morning for the Black Seed Writers Group. Large chunks of The Pilgrim are fueled/inspired/ignited by Robert’s coffee. In this issue Chris “The Drifter” Haubrich lays down some flamethrower oratory; Al Action remembers dirtier days; Shawn Grady refuses to be an eggbeater; and we welcome to our pages MJ, Nathan Tarani, David Sloan, Jeannette T., Luther R., Dylan Kane Rigter, Baby Jesus, and Lisa.