"A few years ago (partly inspired by you), I started composing odes to my favorite drinks and dishes in Colorado. After more than a dozen years working on another project, in which I wrote long-form, navel-gazing essays about being a single father, this seemed like a fun and sustainable way to keep my writing chops in fighting trim while sharing my love for Denver's gems. My goal was to publish one short, impactful, overwrought piece a week."
"Although I started strong, I eventually dipped to one a month, and then to-at this point?-only when I think about it. I could blame the vagaries of daily life and a sense that my columns are getting repetitive. But the truth is, I just don't feel the fire inside like I used to. I was sad when your odes went away, but now I'm wondering if you butted up against something similar:"
"Very important question. When I was gathering my odes into a book -or rather, piling up my effusions in prose and verse and trying to work out which ones were odes and which weren't-my friend Carlo gave me a magical concept. He called it "the odeness." It's the essential quality, quiddity, floating-in-the-luminous-void uniqueness of whatever you're trying to write about. It's what your ode is attempting to first identify and then celebrate. It's the odeness of your ode."
Composed odes to favorite drinks and dishes in Colorado, initially aiming for one short piece per week. After more than a dozen years on a different, long-form project about single fatherhood, frequency declined to monthly and then sporadic due to daily life and diminishing internal fire. A friend named Carlo introduced the concept of 'the odeness,' defined as the essential quality or quiddity—the floating-in-the-luminous-void uniqueness—of a subject. The odeness functions as what an ode seeks to identify and celebrate. The odeness was pursued obsessively, found in ordinary objects and moments, and understood as an inner state or process.
Read at The Atlantic
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