REALITY OF A PRISON WRITER
By: E.C. Theus-Roberts
Most writers only have to stress over deadlines, revisions, eventual writer’s block; perhaps, a family pet emergency. Such distractions may derail their latest bestseller effect. Not so for prison writers. Take my situation for example.
These words are being written with a flex pen – a 4-inch ink cartridge encased in soft, pliable, clear plastic – the only “pens” allowed in maximum security. This is being written on an expanse of paper 8 inches long and 3-1/2 inches wide. Conserving space by printing smaller than your average book font.
That is merely the material deficiencies. Beyond that is the fact I have no chair. There is only a concrete slab, where an evil, demented chiropractor’s “mattress” lays, just close enough to a metal desk affixed to the wall. You have to sit on its edge in order to write. Uncomfortable is an understatement. Still farther is the day-to-day reality.
First and foremost is the noise. Inmates yelling conversations over each other through steel doors. Guards yelling at inmates. Keys jingling, doors opening and slamming shut, random facility announcements, blaring televisions and radios, and people making noise for the sake of shunning silence. Even at 4 AM, prison is only relatively quiet. If you can get past the noise then, you have to deal with the people. Sad to say, but I prefer the incessant noise.
It was not until I came to prison that I realized people suck. In prison you can neither choose nor escape those around you. So, what, by chance, do you do when drafting the final lines to a new essay and another inmate attacks you? Well, you defend yourself, go to punitive segr3egation and hope you get a flex pen and scrap of paper soon enough to jot down your thoughts before the inanity of the situation steals away your better judgment. At least, I did.
Despite all you may have heard or read about prison, on or by prison writers, or whatnot, prison is a peculiar place. Any creative productivity comes at a steep price.
