OCD Crow writes every day or every day possible. She writes in the morning, on an empty stomach, coffee sliding blackly down her throat from a hand-glazed cup she’s come to call her “writing mug.” There are superstitions surrounding the act, yes. Or better, rituals. The emptiness, the mug, the looking towards the river, the reading first: of poetry, of theory or criticism but never any other genre until the afternoon. Always, the Crow writes with a pen on paper. A Sarasa pen preferably in a Moleskin notebook. Straight up for poetry; sideways for prose. Later, if she feels she has a draft, she will type it up on her laptop, revise it once, many times. Always, read it aloud. Is she afraid if she doesn’t write every day she won’t be worthy to call herself an artist? Perhaps. Certainly what she writes every day sometimes ends up in a magazine or a book; quite frequently it won’t. She has cast whole books away. The important thing is being available on a regular basis, staying open. Remaining a channel is vital for Crow. Letting whatever it is know that she’s there, she can be found. Again.