More mundane shite about writers

Chekhov doesn't grab me.
I arrogantly gave him a few paragraphs
before putting him back on the shelf.
He reminds me of when I tried to struggle
with Faulkner, because I was told
it was essential.

The words are just that.
They do nothing, just appear
in a logical order.
Only my time makes them something,
and I refuse to give that away.

Fante and Carver
have done just the opposite:
They grab and keep hold.
Their duty as writers was to start
from the beginning and keep up.
None of this long winded build up dross.

Creep in and call it the loss
of a short attention span,
call it what you will.
Chekhov is a bore
who probably had a lot to say,
but I don't have the time.

I long to be punched in the face
with brilliance
not slowly massaged through
my own patience.

My advice, which is to no doubt be ignored,
is to leave the classics alone
at least until you need then.
Find the two names I mentioned
and hold your judgements away
until the point
when the use of the word
is made clear to you.
Then you can read,
and more importantly,
you can learn
how to write.