ASKING FOR HELP

April 3, 2026 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

I sent my collection to four trusted readers: Greg Freeman, Stephen Claughton, John Wheeler, and Cheryl McLennon. The instructions were vague: read the poems and let me know if you have any comments.

It was one of the best decisions I made. It was expecting far too much from each person to read all 102 poems and provide detailed feedback, so I’ll have to do the difficult bit myself. I became someone else. I had to wear different hats to look at a problem to ask what sort of hard questions they would demand of each poem:
Wearing the curator’s hat. Does it earn its place in the collection? A poem that works on its own may still be deadweight in a collection. Ask whether it adds something the other poems do not: a different tone, a different angle, a necessary pause or acceleration. If you could remove it and nothing would be lost, it probably should go.
Wearing the architect’s hat. Does its form work? (Short answer: no. Loose free verse became poems in three-line tercets.) Form is not decoration. It is an argument about how the content should be experienced. Free verse can feel like a default rather than a decision. Ask whether the shape of the poem on the page is working for or against what the poem is trying to do.
Wearing the navigator’s hat. Is there a turn, a moment where something shifts? This is sometimes called the volta. It does not have to be dramatic, but something needs to change: the speaker’s understanding, the emotional register, the angle of vision. A poem without a turn is usually just a description. The turn is where the poem becomes a poem.
Wearing the carpenter’s hat. Do the lines and stanzas end in the right place? The end of a line is the most powerful position in a poem. It creates a small moment of suspension before the reader moves on. Look at what word is sitting at the end of each line and ask whether it deserves that emphasis. The same goes for stanza breaks, which are like a longer breath, a chance to let something land before moving forward.
Wearing the critic’s hat. Is the poem unclear? Is it interesting? These are two separate questions and both matter. A poem can be perfectly clear and completely inert. It can also be interestingly strange but so obscure it locks the reader out. You are looking for the productive middle ground: a poem that rewards attention without demanding decoding.
Wearing the doorman’s hat. Does the ending explain what the poem already showed rather than open beyond it? Weak endings tend to summarise or interpret, telling the reader what to feel about what they have just read. Strong endings trust the poem and the reader. They tend to open outward rather than close down, leaving a resonance rather than a conclusion.
Wearing the conductor’s hat. Is the poem rushing past its best moments or lingering past its welcome? Read the poem aloud and notice where you want more time and where you want to move on. A poem that races through its most interesting image has probably not understood where its centre of gravity is. A poem that keeps going after its natural ending has not trusted itself to stop.
Wearing the surgeon’s hat. Are there unnecessary lines? Most poems are too long. Look for lines that repeat what has already been said, that explain an image rather than let it stand, or that exist only to get to the next line. Cut them and see if the poem gets stronger. It usually does.
Wearing the detective’s hat. Does it actually sound like me? This is one of the hardest questions because it requires you to know what your voice actually is. Look for lines that feel borrowed, that sound like a poem rather than like you. If you read a line and think someone else could have written it, that is worth examining. The goal is not to be different for its own sake but to be specific, and specificity is where voice lives.
Wearing the gatekeeper’s hat. Does the opening earn entry quickly, or is the real poem buried a few stanzas in? Writers often need to write their way into a poem, which means the first draft frequently has a false start at the top. Read the poem and ask where it actually begins. If the third stanza is where things come alive, consider cutting everything above it and seeing what happens.
Wearing the diver’s hat. Is the poem about what it thinks it is about, or is there a deeper subject trying to surface? A poem about a walk in the woods may actually be about grief. A poem about a childhood kitchen may actually be about forgiveness. Sometimes the stated subject is a way in to something the writer has not quite named yet. If you can feel a pressure beneath the surface of a poem, try to identify what it is and ask whether the poem is fully addressing it.
Wearing the traveller’s hat. Does the poem move? Does something change between the first line and the last? By the final line, the poem should have taken you somewhere. The change can be subtle, a shift in tone, a slight reframing, a new image that recasts everything before it. But if the last line could swap places with the first without any real loss, the poem is standing still.
Wearing the gardener’s hat. Are the images doing work, or are they decoration? An image should earn its place by doing something that direct statement cannot. It should illuminate, complicate, or extend the poem’s meaning. If an image is simply pretty, or simply there, ask what would happen if you removed it. If the answer is nothing, it is probably decoration.
Wearing the hat that keeps falling off. Where does the poem lose you, even slightly? That is usually where the problem is. This is the most useful instinct an editor can develop. You do not always need to know why a poem loses you, only to notice that it does. A moment of confusion, a line that feels off, a stanza where your attention drifts: these are signals. Mark them and bring them to the writer. The problem may not be exactly where you felt it, but it will be nearby.

Killing Your Darlings

February 20, 2026 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

The phrase is commonly linked to William Faulkner. Its clearer early form appears in a 1914 lecture by Arthur Quiller-Couch. He advised writers:

“Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it wholeheartedly and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.”

In a poetry collection, the darling may be a strong standalone poem that disrupts tonal coherence, a crowd-pleaser that flattens quieter tensions, an early success that no longer matches your current voice, or a poem that repeats work handled better elsewhere. The issue is not quality in isolation. It is fit.

Postcards from the Floating World began with a simple constraint: one poem a day for a 102-day world cruise. The structure felt watertight. Every day accounted for, every port recorded, the calendar as backbone.

A strict calendar can flatten voltage.

When I sent the manuscript to a few friends and then left it alone for two weeks, I came back with different eyes. Not better eyes. Just eyes that had stopped being proud of the project and started reading the poems. I saw a collection that documented the voyage faithfully but in places forgot to be a book.

I hope they agree with me I should cut nine poems. Days 5, 6, 18, 33, 34, 39, 56, 60, and 80.

The reasons vary Some are weak. Some are pleasant but go nowhere. Some cover ground handled better elsewhere. Some could have been written by anyone. Some were too raw, serving me rather than the reader. Some were repetitive.

Removing those days restored pressure to the collection. The gaps do what gaps do. They ask the reader to lean in.

The hardest cut was Day 39. I had called it Exit, a poem about the introvert’s need to slip away from noise and find a quiet corner. I liked it. I revised it carefully. It had a good last line. Read cold, it said exactly what it meant and nothing more. It did not discover anything. It confirmed what the reader already suspected about the speaker and sent them on their way. That may be enough for an essay. It is not enough for a poem.

That is what a darling looks like from the outside. Important to the writer. Explicable. Self-contained. For those reasons, faintly inert on the page.

A collection is an argument in sequence. One poem may be excellent in isolation yet distort pacing, shift register, or introduce a theme the book cannot sustain. Keeping it because it once felt important weakens the whole.

There is a structural economy at stake. Too many high-voltage poems in a row can numb the reader. Too many explanatory poems close down interpretive space. The discipline of cutting is not self-punishment. It is alignment. Asking each poem not just whether it works, but whether it works here, next to these poems, in this order, for a reader who has just come from there and is heading elsewhere.

The 102-day structure was never the point. The voyage was. And the voyage, like all voyages, was not continuous. It had dead days, wasted days, days that led nowhere. Honouring that in the manuscript means keeping some of those days. It also means knowing which serve the book and which serve the calendar.

The calendar, in the end, is not your reader’s problem.

If you are working on a collection and wondering whether a poem belongs, the question is not: is this good? You already know it is good. That is why it is still there.

The question is: does it discover, or does it confirm?

Confirmation is comfortable. Discovery is what the reader came for.

Murder your darlings. They survive the cut. You wrote them. They are already inside everything else.

REJECTION

February 4, 2026 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

Last week I received four rejections in the space of a few days. Close enough together to feel cumulative. I reminded myself, as I always do, that there are many reasons a strong poem is turned away.

Not a fit for the journal
A poem can be doing serious work and still fall outside a journal’s aesthetic or tonal frame. Editors shape issues deliberately. Fit is curatorial, not evaluative. Rejection here says nothing about the poem’s durability.

The editor already has enough poems
Space is finite. Once a balance of voices, forms, or subjects is reached, later submissions face a higher bar regardless of quality. Timing often outweighs merit. Many strong poems arrive after the door has effectively closed.

The poem was read after several stronger or similar pieces
Reading is comparative, not absolute. When poems echo themes or structures already encountered, even a good one can feel diminished. Fatigue is contextual. In a different sequence, the poem may have stood out.

The editor read it on a crowded, distracted day
Submissions are often read between other obligations. Attention is uneven. Energy is limited. Subtle work can be missed under these conditions. The poem did not fail the reader. The reading failed the poem.

Rejected for logistical reasons, not merit
Editorial calendars, themed issues, internal debates, and shifting priorities all shape decisions. Many rejections come after a poem has been taken seriously. Silence or form replies often mask constraint rather than judgment.

Of course I feel disappointed. Rejection costs something. But I do not feel judged. A rejection is not a verdict on the poem’s intelligence, ambition, or future. It is a situational decision made under conditions I cannot see.

My responses vary. Sometimes the poem goes straight to the next journal unchanged, a belief that the work is finished and the context was wrong. Sometimes I let it sit, then return with cooler attention. Distance can expose slack, or confirm the poem’s integrity.

I try not to revise aggressively to preempt rejection. Risk and strangeness are easy to trim and hard to restore. More often, I shelve the poem and write something new, accepting that not every strong poem needs an outlet immediately. Over time, rejection becomes background noise.

There is no ideal response. What matters is whether the response allows the work to continue. I like Sylvia Plath’s response “I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.” Tony Hoagland reminds me that editors are often protecting a framework, not judging a life’s work. Mary Oliver frames rejection as ordinary labour, endures.

From Stigma to Strategy: How Self Publishing Became a Legit Path for Poets

January 15, 2026 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

1. Opening scene
A decade ago, a poet handing out a stapled pamphlet at an open mic in Leeds or Hackney risked being quietly dismissed. If your work did not pass through a recognised press, people assumed you had missed the mark. The rule was never written down, but everyone knew it. You had to be serious.

2. What “proper poet” used to mean
Serious poets subscribed to Poetry Review, PN Review and The Rialto. They clocked every new issue of magazines such as Magma, Ambit, Butcher’s Dog and Acumen. They tracked pamphlet releases from Smith Doorstop, HappenStance, Shoestring and Tall-lighthouse. They knew who had moved from Faber to Picador or stepped across to Cape. They knew about the canon, even championed obscure ones. This was the culture of correctness and it was a full-time job. Oh yes, they were mostly men.

3. Why things changed
Digital tools lowered barriers. Print on demand services such as KDP, IngramSpark and Lulu brought costs down. Mixam and Ex Why Zed made small runs viable. A poet in Norwich could design a cover, send the file to print and have twenty books ready for a weekend fair. The poet did not need a gatekeeper to check it was good enough, would sell enough copies, eventually say yes. Or no

4. The poet changed too
The rise of spoken word reshaped expectations. Poets were no longer only page writers queuing for magazine slots. They were performers touring pubs, bars and festivals. Open mics across London, Manchester, Bristol, Liverpool, Cardiff and here in Woking created active scenes for local people to become involved in. A poem refined on stage fed straight into a hand sold pamphlet. The poet became author, editor, promoter, bookseller and sometimes publisher.

5. The new audience
Spoken word brought people who had never read Poetry Review into the room. They bought what moved them. Salena Godden, Joelle Taylor, Robert Garnham built loyal followings through live work long before anyone took notice. When those readers wanted the poems in print, self published or micro press books filled the gap.

6. The new landscape
Tables at Ledbury, the London Small Press Fair show self published work stacked beside titles from Nine Arches, Verve, Bad Betty, Fly On The Wall, Paper Swans and Bloodaxe. But publishing is a precarious trade. Small presses stretch shoestring budgets, depend on grant cycles and volunteer labour, and sometimes fold without warning. In the past decade presses such as Tall Lighthouse and Eyewear have closed or paused activity. Others shrink their lists or skip a season when money or time runs short. A poet who waited years for a perfect home could watch it disappear overnight. Self publishing became a practical safeguard against this uncertainty.

7. Money and control
A ten pound pamphlet printed through Mixam might cost two pounds per copy. Sell it after a reading and the poet keeps most of the margin. In a traditional deal the poet might receive one or two pounds per copy. Self publishing also means choosing artwork, correcting drafts immediately and reprinting on your own schedule.

8. Where the old stigma still clings
Some gates remain narrow. Prizes such as the Forward and T S Eliot typically accept books submitted by publishers. National review pages lean toward Picador, Faber, Cape and Carcanet catalogues. Yet blogs and podcasts including The Poetry School, Sabotage Reviews and Lunar Poetry regularly feature self published titles.

9. Choosing what fits your life
A press such as Carcanet, Bloodaxe or Peepal Tree works well for poets who want editorial depth and distribution. For occasional writers or anyone who cannot spare hours each day sending to magazines, a local print shop may be the simplest route. Design a cover, order fifty copies, give or sell them to friends and local readers. Either way the work reaches the world.

10. Closing reflection
The definition of a poet has widened. No longer confined to pages in sanctioned magazines, poets now read, perform, film, post and print on their own terms. Some still pursue the traditional ladder. Others build their own steps. A poem that connects with a listener or reader counts. The route it travelled is no longer the test. So this year I will self-publish a book.

TWO MORE CRUISE POEMS PUBLISHED

December 3, 2025December 18, 2025 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

many thanks to London Grip for publishing. So that’s 41 poems published out of 102.

 DAY 41: APOLOGIES, WE LOST THURSDAY

I went to bed clutching Wednesday

and woke to Friday’s blank stare.

My watch still ticks Thursday,
loyal and confused,
while the ship’s newsletter
has moved on without me.

At breakfast, I ask the waiter
what happened to yesterday.
He shrugs, refills my coffee,
like losing a day is as normal
as losing an umbrella.

“It’s waiting for your return trip,”
the officer grins.
As if time were a checked bag
held at customs,
waiting for me to flash a pink slip.

I check my phone for proof
of the vanished hours:
no calls, no messages,
no evidence I existed
between sleep and waking.

The newsletter slides under my door,
announcing the day I missed
and a surprise appearance by Elton John
wearing his sequinned jacket.

The world simply reorganised itself
while I wasn’t looking.
This is how my life is lost
one missed line on the map at a time.

           DAY 87: THE ONE-EYED SEAL WILL JUDGE YOU 
                             (Walvis Bay, Namibia)

Sammy and Mandela steer our floating lounge
into the grey mouth of Pelican Point,
where fifty thousand seals preside like judges
in a courthouse made of rot.

Even half a mile out, the air curdles:
kerosene towels, fermented gut,
the sea’s rancid exhale
seeping into our clothes.

On shore, a lone hyena paces,
all hunger and hipbone,
searching for what can’t crawl fast enough.
Flamingos wade through chemical puddles,
pink cassocks flicking blessings
on pools that bloom in filth.

A preview of what survival looks like
when no one’s watching.

A pelican lands on deck,
its beak a rusted ladle of bones.
It struts through the cocktail fumes,
dragging a net of slippery miracles.

Then the one-eyed seal surfaces,
propeller scars stitched down its spine,
a cursive script of human failure
etched into its slick skin.
It can’t hunt anymore.

Mandela tosses it hake and salmon:
our guilt, whole and in a bucket.
I sip champagne. The bubbles rise
like the lost cries of something we forgot to save. +

We click photos, perform communion.
Guilt smiles with mirrored sunglasses,
wipes its mouth, says it’s doing the best it can.

Landfall: Finishing Postcards from the Floating World

November 9, 2025December 3, 2025 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

After months of writing, editing, and second-guessing, I’ve arrived at that strange, quiet point where the poems from Postcards from the Floating World feel finished — or at least as finished as they’re going to get. Any new revision just creates another version of the same poem, not a better one. It’s a familiar kind of exhaustion and satisfaction, like getting home after a long voyage. You unpack your bags, look at the souvenirs, and realise that while you’ve come a long way, part of you is still swaying with the sea.

This project began on a world cruise. One hundred and two nights, one short poem a day. It started as a private challenge — a way to record what I saw, said, overheard, and imagined while the ship moved across time zones and weather systems.

Some days I wrote beside the pool while crew members hosed down the deck. Other days I sat in the bar listening to the choir practice. A few times I even scribbled lines in the cabin coffee table while Frances had a bath.

Soon the poems became their own kind of travelogue. Some were small sketches of a moment, others more like letters to myself, written from the middle of nowhere. Together, they started to form a record of motion and stillness — of people temporarily unanchored, and the odd beauty of routine life at sea. And there were a lot of days at sea, about 66.

There are love poems, weather reports, being scared, elegies, jokes — in fact a whole floating city’s worth of human voices.

Coming home, I started revising. And revising. And revising again. At first it was thrilling — I could see the weak spots and fix them. Then the process slowed. I’d move a comma, break a line differently, shift a word, then shift it back. Eventually I realised I wasn’t improving the poems anymore, just orbiting them. Each change made a slightly different version of the same thought, and none felt more “right” than the others. That’s when I knew I’d reached the end of the creative phase.

Of course, it’s difficult enough to know when a single poem is finished, let alone a whole collection. A poem can stop moving, but that doesn’t mean it’s complete. With a collection, there’s the extra question of consistency — not just in tone, but in voice. Does the same speaker inhabit all these pages, or are there several versions of me talking at once? I’ve tried to keep the voice steady, honest, and recognisably mine, even as the settings and moods shift from port to port.

That’s not to say the poems are perfect — I don’t believe in perfect poems. But they’re good enough, and as honest as I can make them. About a quarter have already been published in magazines, which gives me a quiet sense of validation that they hold up in the wider world. The rest are waiting their turn, patient and self-contained, ready to be gathered together.

What surprised me most was how the poems began to speak to one another. A line written in the Pacific suddenly echoed something from the Atlantic weeks earlier. It was as if the poems knew more about the journey than I did. And then of course there was hearing about my brother being taken into hospital, and later still dying.

I’ve learned that perfection isn’t the goal; connection is. If a poem can make someone pause, smile, or remember something they’d forgotten, then it’s done its work. These poems carry what I wanted to say in the voice that emerged while I was writing them, and I trust that voice now more than I ever did at the start.

So, what happens next? The obvious next step is a book. The sequence already has a shape: a beginning full of movement and discovery, a middle of reflection and routine, and an ending that tilts toward home and stillness.

It’s called Postcards from the Floating World, which feels right — each poem a snapshot from a drifting moment. I imagine the book like a box of postcards you find in a drawer years later, each one holding a piece of a life that was temporarily unmoored.

Before publication, there are the practical choices: layout, order, notes, the question of whether to include photographs or keep it purely textual. But these decisions feel lighter than the creative work. They’re about presentation, not invention. The hard part — finding the voice, building the rhythm, discovering what the poems wanted to be — is done.

Writing every day taught me that inspiration is overrated — most days, you just show up and trust that something small will open. The sea doesn’t perform for you; it just keeps moving. I still catch myself noticing things in the same way — a snatch of conversation, a shaft of light, a stranger’s awkward grace. Maybe those will feed into something new. But for now, I’m content to stand on the deck and watch this one come to shore.

If you’ve followed bits of this journey, thank you. These poems began as private notes and have turned into something I can share. Postcards from the Floating World will become a book soon — something to hold in your hands rather than scroll past. I’ll share more once the tide carries it into print.

Finishing a project like this doesn’t feel like triumph. It feels like gratitude — for the words that arrived, the days that held them, and the ship that kept moving forward even when I wasn’t sure where we were going.

About the author:
Rodney Wood lives in Farnborough and writes poems about travel, memory, and the odd grace of everyday life. Postcards from the Floating World grew from a world cruise, where he wrote one poem each night for 102 nights. A quarter of the poems have already appeared in magazines including The High Window, Seventh Quarry, Black Nore and Morphrog. The full collection is now sailing toward book form.

If you enjoyed this post, feel free to subscribe, leave a comment, or share a memory of your own journey — on land or at sea.

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What the Cruise Poems Say About Me

November 2, 2025December 3, 2025 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

After living with these poems for more than a year, I’ve started to see the person inside them more clearly — not the real me exactly, but the outline of someone I once allowed to speak.

That person has good qualities.
They pay attention. They know how to listen for the small sounds: the hiss of disinfectant, the tremor of glassware, the shuffle of passengers settling into seats. They look carefully, maybe too carefully, and turn each detail into a kind of evidence. There’s tenderness in that, and humour too — a quiet irony that keeps sentiment from tipping over.

They also understand the strange ethics of travel. How beauty and guilt can sit side by side at a buffet table. How privilege can shimmer like sea light, easy to admire, hard to ignore. I like that about them — their moral curiosity, their unwillingness to look away.

But there are flaws too.
This poet, this traveller, sometimes hides behind the act of noticing. They stay a little too safe, too composed, always the watcher and rarely the one watched. The voice can become too even, too polite, like a dinner conversation that never quite gets personal.

And sometimes they list the world instead of living in it.
The poems start collecting things — sunsets, cocktails, towels — until the rhythm turns static, as if observation alone could replace experience.

Still, I don’t dislike this version of myself. They were trying to be honest, and to be kind. Maybe they were learning how to see.

If the next poems are different — more sprawling, less well-behaved, full of weather and interruption — it’s because I’ve stepped back into the middle of life. The watcher is still there somewhere, scanning the horizon, but the poems will have to make room now for the person who keeps missing the boat.

Who Wrote These Cruise Poems?

November 2, 2025December 3, 2025 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been wondering what sort of person wrote all these cruise poems.
Yes, my name’s on the title page but after months of shaping, sanding, rearranging the deckchairs, I’m not sure the writer is quite me anymore.

Maybe I’ve become a version of myself invented by the poems: the watcher leaning on the rail at dawn, tasting toothpaste and late night cocktails; the one sitting in the ship’s theatre, amused and uneasy as the magician pulls doves from a hat while the sea keeps rolling on outside. Someone half in awe, half embarrassed by the spectacle of travel, by the buffets, the sunsets, the endless sense of being entertained.

I read them now and see a person who notices too much. Who studies the choreography of other people’s holidays, who feels both tenderness and guilt in equal measure. A traveller who wants to observe without being seen observing. Someone quietly comic, quietly appalled, sensitive to surfaces but listening for the undertow.

After spending over a year with these poems I stopped writing anything new for a while. Maybe I’d been too long at sea. And when words finally came again, they were different: sprawling, loud, full of interruptions and were another version of myself.

That’s what writing does. It builds a persona that can stand where you once stood, looking out to sea, while you move on. So if you read these poems, imagine that person on deck, attentive, conflicted, balancing between wonder and unease. They’re there, somewhere in the poems. But they’re not the real me anymore, who ever that is.

I Was Going to Post a Poem… Then I Remembered This

October 11, 2025December 3, 2025 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

I was going to share an earlier version of a poem that didn’t fit into my cruise collection, but then I remembered: most literary magazines consider any version of a poem that’s been publicly posted online — social media, blogs, or open forums — as previously published.

That includes early drafts, even if the poem has changed since then. What matters isn’t perfection or version, it’s public availability. Once a poem is visible to anyone online, it’s technically “published.”

There are a few grey areas though:

Private or limited-access posts — such as online or in-person workshops, peer critique sites that require login, private emails, newsletters for subscribers only, shared drafts in Google Docs or Dropbox, or poems read aloud at open mics — don’t count as publication.
Deleted posts still count if they were ever publicly visible, though some smaller or more flexible journals might make exceptions if it was a brief share.
Revisions don’t reset the clock. Even if the poem’s been reworked, it’s still the same poem if it keeps the central image, subject, tone, or phrasing. Only when it’s no longer recognisably the same does it become a new piece.

Most editors won’t go hunting for your poem online, but some might recognise it. Editors tend to read widely.
In the end, the system runs on good faith — they trust you to be honest. If they later discover a poem was posted publicly, they can withdraw it or reject future submissions.

So, I’m afraid you can’t see the poem until it’s published.

Breaking the Mould: How Doing the Opposite Revitalized My Poetry

August 21, 2025December 3, 2025 ~ Rodney Wood ~ Leave a comment

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. For a while, that was me. I had a comfortable poetry routine, and for a time it worked. But comfort has a way of dulling the edges. The poems began to sound alike. The spark that once lit up the page was starting to fade.

Routine, Until It Wasn’t

Most mornings I followed the same ritual: breakfast, then retreat to the small bedroom that doubled as my study. I’d put on music, quiet at first (usually Spotify) then louder with blues rock as I settled in, and draft a poem. The ideas came easily enough; poems are always floating past if you’re paying attention. Then I’d spend hours revising until I had something close to finished.

This routine held me for years. It was a cocoon, a safe place where poems steadily arrived. But after a while, I noticed I was recycling the same rhythms, the same gestures. I was producing, yes, but I wasn’t surprising myself anymore.

The Cruise That Shook Things Up

Then came the 100-day cruise. Suddenly my little cocoon was gone. No small bedroom, no desk, no predictable soundtrack. The ship itself became my writing room: a lounge chair by the bar upstairs or on the settee in the cabin writing on the tiny coffee table while the ocean rocked us forward.

Neal Pasricha writes, “Different is better than better.” On the ship I felt that in my bones. The artist Marina Abramović once quoted Krsto Hegedušić: “If you get so good at drawing with your right hand that you can even make a beautiful sketch with your eyes closed, you should immediately change to your left hand to avoid repeating yourself.”

That was exactly my situation. I was writing with the same hand over and over. The cruise forced me to change hands.

An Opposite Approach

Back home, I wanted to keep shaking things up. So I set myself a challenge: instead of labouring over one poem until it was polished, I would do the opposite. I would write 100 drafts, one after another, without pausing to perfect a single one.

At first it felt reckless, like running downhill too fast. I wasn’t allowed to hesitate, to weigh every word, or to polish a line until it gleamed. The rule was forward motion only. Some drafts fizzled slightly, others surprised me with sudden heat. But by the time I reached fifty, then seventy, then one hundred, I was exhilarated. I had built a momentum that my old routine never allowed.

When I finally circled back, I treated the drafts like old acquaintances. A quick hello, a light touch, then I moved on. Each round of revision deepened the work without killing the rawness that first sparked it. By the fifth or sixth pass, patterns began to emerge, echoes, connections, small threads that linked one poem to another. What I found wasn’t a single polished piece but a chorus of voices that gradually blended into something recognisably mine.

Drafting in bulk instead of fussing line by line gave me more than just a stack of poems. It gave me a stronger, more consistent style: a voice that wasn’t imposed, but discovered in the sheer act of repetition and return.

The Lessons of Opposites

I’ve tried this before. I wrote on crowded trains instead of in solitude. I wrote in the voices of objects, or my younger self, or even a plum tree. I started with the last line first. I scribbled in haiku when I was used to free verse. I used to do front of house work at an arts centre and wrote a poem the very next morning. Each experiment shook something loose.

Not every attempt worked. Some were disasters. But even those failures carried me somewhere new.

What I Learned

Doing the opposite wasn’t comfortable. My inner critic protested every step. But discomfort, I realized, was part of the point. It meant I was entering unfamiliar territory, where something unexpected could happen.

On that cruise, and in the months after, I learned this: if you want different results, you have to do something different. The poems I wrote taught me that surprise is the lifeblood of creativity, and routine, useful as it is, must sometimes be broken open.

So if your creativity ever feels stuck, try the opposite. Write in a noisy café instead of your quiet corner. Begin with the ending. Change your posture. Change your tools. Change your hand.

The opposite is waiting, and with it, something new.

Routine, Until It Wasn’t

The Cruise That Shook Things Up

The Lessons of Opposites

What I Learned

Further Reading & Inspiration