Philip Brunetti
Oyster River Pages: What is the most challenging aspect of your artistic process?
Philip Brunetti: Making something excellent or excellent enough that I can stand reading it. Or better yet, want to read it. I guess I mean that in my drafting process, most things come out good enough that I know there is some promise there, but it's generally a long way off from where it needs to be. All my fiction goes through multiple drafts, but the key is to revise in a way that it always sounds fresh and as if this is the way the sentence or paragraph got born, organically and seamlessly. This does happen occasionally on its own—a near finalized draft off the bat—but usually I revise and go over things a good ten times before I feel like it's rhythmic and clicking and sounding the way it needs to.
ORP: What would you say is your most interesting writing and/or artistic quirk?
PB: I'm really a secret poet masquerading as a fiction writer. I write novels but have no real natural skills to write novels. For me it's all about language, the urgency of the prose line, the rhythm, imagery, intensity, and ambiguities... I suppose I hold poetry in such high esteem that I don't go there much formally but do constantly dash off short poems that I mostly text to friends and never revisit or 'collect.' So, my quirk is that I barely acknowledge myself as a poet even though everything I write—and I mostly write fiction—has poetic aims. Every flash fiction, short story, and novel is really a 2-,12-, or 200-page prose poem in disguise, somewhat.
ORP: What do you think is the best way to improve writing and/or artistic skills?
PB: Unfortunately, the best way to improve it is to do it regularly. Now that doesn't mean you have to write eight hours a day every day. I suppose some writers work like that, but I can't. Instead, I have appointments with myself each week. I look at my work and life schedule and see where my writing fits. Usually I can get three or four 2-hour sessions done per week. That's not a ton of time but you stay faithful to it. You set aside that time and, if you train yourself, you automatically enter it in a state of semi-inspiration. You've kept the promise, you've honored the practice. Then you act, you write, revise, reread—whatever it takes to move a piece forward. I advise you finish one piece at a time, at least during your novice years. Even now, after many years of writing, I'll rarely work on two or more pieces at once unless one is a throwaway poem via text. Those are add-ons to the regular writing schedule and done for sheer fun. You improve by finding ways that make the creative process engaging and entertaining—to yourself. Oh, I'd also add read a ton, especially writers you share an affinity with. See what they do, how they do it—then 'steal' from them, stealthily and strategically, in a way that improves it and makes it your own.
ORP: What does vulnerability mean to you as an artist and/or writer?
PB: Vulnerability means you will go there. You will do the deed, say the thing, take the risk... Really, we are only subservient to the work and the work has to be done in a way that it's greater than your conscious mind, greater than what you think you want to do. You may have an idea for a story or poem or whatever, but once it starts coming out, getting put down, let it run the show, let it get written through you more than you writing it. You are vulnerable because you are digging into your depths, uncovering layers, and daring to tell it like it is. That doesn't mean that you are being confessional, necessarily; it just means that you are open to the full aspect of your creativity, and it will take you out of your normal depth and into the vaster wilds, thank God.
