I read an interesting little blog post on 43 Folders today on how you might define a writer; someone who makes writing part of their life or someone who feels guilty about not writing. And a little about the poet Frank O’Hara who made writing a big part of a bigger life:
Frank O’Hara didn’t seem to have this problem. He made it a point not to be a professional poet, but to write poems and essays and catalog introductions and letters and his own life in the due course of long days he filled equally with chatter, lunches, working at the MOMA, talking on the phone. Kenneth Burke called literature equipment for living, and O’Hara never put his away. He was always making. Sometimes poems, sometimes friends
O’Hara had a book for poems his wrote in his lunchtimes. Nice idea.