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Laura’s line breaks: A guide to the writing life

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ridingl

As both a connoisseur and writer of poems, I spend some of each day reading work by poets both canonized and contemporary. Recently, my daily reading included the works of Laura Riding (Jackson). Riding’s poem, “The Troubles of a Book” seems on its surface to be a meditative piece. It examines the life of one book, its pros and cons, and the psychology and humanity that effects texts’ perception by readers.

A more analytical look at this piece, however, yields some interesting messages. Particularly, the line breaks of the poem give some sage advice, no matter how unintentional this effect may have been. From the outset of the poem, the reader is greeted with “be nobody unwritten unread” as the final words of the first four lines. This little full-word acrostic makes a fine admonition to anyone pursuing a literary life. Certainly, authors of any genre should aspire to be both well-read and well-written. Did Riding mean for us to use these “power position words” in such a way? Maybe not, but you can bet that she recognized them as meaningful terms, and knew they fit well where they were when she wrote them.

Moving forward in the piece, the reader will notice the last three lines ending with “liveliness with bookishness,” yet another good maxim for those in the literary realm. History is full of examples of authors whose work flourished, not because they sat brooding behind a desk somewhere, but because they took Carpe Diem to heart. Hemingway ran with bulls in Spain, London froze in the Yukon, Frost absorbed culture in England, Dickinson…. oh, wait. Never mind about that last one. Maybe not every author has to mix their bookishness with liveliness, but it’s still a good idea.

One other example of Riding’s line breaks and their instructional insinuations can be found in her piece, “The World and I.” About halfway through the poem, Riding ends three lines with “sense! meaning knowing,” a statement that can be interpreted infinitely if given enough cognition. Authors of every genre should aspire for their writing to make sense, of course, and their work should provide both meaning and knowing, but beyond that checklist, this line-break message could also be seen as something of an instruction to writers: For our work to truly shine, we have to be sensitive to meanings and knowledge that others take for granted. A crooked exit sign, for example, is something more to the poet than to the electrician. Whereas Joe Average sees a problem to be fixed, the poet sees symbolic potential and possible warning.

Admittedly, I may be “stretching” the capacity of Riding’s diction here, but if we as writers can gain guidance, even if it’s unscrambled from the letters on a bubble gum wrapper, then we are better for it. Maybe Laura didn’t mean for us to read her poems like a map, but sometimes the best directions are ones that we decipher all by ourselves.

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Christmas Remembrances — Friend or Foe?

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Pull-up-Christmas-Tree-with-LightsOne of the best things about being a poet around the holidays is the reflection that generates so many great memories. Ideas spurred on by recollections of past Christmases or realizations that take place here in the present are equally powerful motivations to write.

The one cautionary admonition I would issue to my fellow writers, however, falls into that dreadful category of avoiding bathos — that ripe sentimentality (see prior posts) which lessens the power of our words. Holidays become great cliche fodder; all the old pieces of language from carols and cards come flooding back to our brains, and if we aren’t careful, they’ll seep their way into our writing and stink it up like expired egg nog.   

With that word of sufficient warning, allow me to make one slight allowance — writing work that alludes to Christmas carols or other seasonal cultural icons is entirely different. Starting a poem with “Silent Night, Holy Night” and then altering it to convey a completely different message than the old hymn is  okay. Moreover, it’s a world apart from describing one’s past family celebrations as “holly jolly” or simply “merry.” Yuck!

The challenge for writers of all genres is finding new ways to express the oldest of great notions. When Dickens penned A Christmas Carol so long ago, you can bet that he knew his message was not novel — “greed bad, generosity good” had been a maxim for generations before Ebenezer Scrooge existed. But through memorable characterization, engaging dialogue (who doesn’t know “Bah! Humbug!”) and other tools of the trade, Dickens was able to render a masterpiece that has been adapted and enjoyed for more than a century.

As writers, the greatest gift we can give ourselves this season is new perspective. Let’s leave the old wrapping paper of holiday hackney in the dark recesses of our mental attics, and erect the fresh green boughs of our modern perceptions and expressions. As our memories and our current situations blend warmly in the glow of the holidays, let us task ourselves with the duty of renewal and re-purpose. The ghost of Christmas yet to come will thank us for it.

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On losing role models

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Jake Adam York
Jake Adam York

Yesterday, in the midst of national mourning over Newtown, CT, America quietly lost one of its brightest young poetry stars. Jake Adam York, author of A Murmuration of Starlings and other great books, passed away after a stroke. The thing that makes this so difficult for me is not that I was close to Jake as some of my friends were, but the fact that he and I share so many similar “markers” in our lives. We’re roughly the same age (he was a little older than I), we both write “Southern” literature, although in very different ways, and we have followed fairly similar professional paths within higher education. His accomplishments far surpass my few little awards and recognitions, but we both shared similar goals and ambitions, as well. His voice was unique and upbeat, and I found myself going to his work frequently as a guide, especially for my regional work.

People who knew him well described him as kind, open, warm, and fun to be around. As I was telling a friend of mine who befriended Jake early on his career, I knew his work and his voice primarily through reading his stellar poetry. But secondarily, I felt like I understood him as a person through his seminars, workshops, and videos of his readings and speaking engagements. Granted, none of these media replace truly knowing a person. However, by gaining a sense of his perspectives, his vision, and his understandings, I felt like I was participating in life alongside him as a fellow poet. Maybe that statement is a little selfish, and certainly it isn’t intended to be.

His legacy should inspire writers and poets everywhere to produce their finest work. None of us knows when our last breath will be, and we should aspire to disseminate work that reflects the very best of ourselves. Jake did. As our country and the literary community continue to heal from tragedy, we owe it to ourselves to reflect on all our gifts and blessings, especially in this season. Pondering the bittersweet combination of loss and generosity should motivate us to use our talents for the betterment of our world at large. Our role models, no matter what field they may be in, always point us toward things higher, greater, and more important than ourselves. We owe it to their memories to preserve the spirit of excellence by doing our utmost.

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“Risking” sentimentality

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sentimental As the next residency period for the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program draws nearer, I’ve been reading the required materials like a good student. In my packet of readables this time, there are an awful lot of opinions regarding the idea of “sentimentality” in writing, especially poetry.

I’ve grown up as a writer around mentors who use the word “maudlin” disparagingly, and who utter “saccharine” for truly reprehensible sweetness violations in literature. These authors that I am reading, however, issue a valid and worth-repeating maxim to poets and writers alike who fear being too emotional or too feeling-oriented in their writing.

Essentially, all their opinions boil down to this: Use sentimental discernment. That is, if you know that the writing is corny, hokey, cliche, or sugary to the point of nausea, it needs to be edited or omitted totally. However, fearing openness and exposure through one’s literature is equally a handicap to be overcome. Some of these authors state blatantly that modern writers have become so emotionally distant from their work, that it lacks the “heart” that made literature great in the first place. Instead, witty wordplay and smart-aleck irony have become the standard. Poets are deemed cool if they seem to be the writing equivalent of Dirty Harry Callahan.

It’s time to put our emotions back into our work, but it’s time we did so without resorting to the hackneyed devices of yesteryear. Risking sentimentality increases the humanity of our writing, and allows us to reach those who have had similar experiences as well as those who haven’t. Poets don’t need to shoot for greeting card verse, but we also don’t need to shield ourselves by writing solely disinterested observations on life. There’s enough pseudo-philosophy out there right now through memes, tropes, and bumper stickers. Let’s put the heart back into our writing, and history will remember us fondly for doing so.

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The Poet’s Black Friday Wish List

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 Poets have slightly different holiday tastes than do Average Joe and Plain Jane. On my list this year, I have all sorts of things that the “normal” folks probably would not think to ask for, but then, eccentricity becomes an expectation once you’ve told people that you’re a writer. For better or worse, here’s a list of a few things I’d like to get, and probably, some of your writer friends would like also:

1. The Best American Poetry 2012: This year’s collection, compiled and edited with the help of Mark Doty, has quite a few poets I admire personally, including my own writing mentor, Erica Dawson. Reading good work often leads to writing good work.

2. The 6.5 Habits of Moderately Successful Poets. This is another book in the category of “things I’ve been meaning to read, but haven’t.”  After reading the reviews, I’m pretty convinced I should at least familiarize myself with it.

3. Cool new bookends. I have this affinity for bookends — there’s a certain stability and finality that they convey, I suppose. Antique stores and online vendors alike offer great opportunities to pick up a piece of history while keeping one’s texts ship-shape. There’s also this air of refinement that bookends offer, and I suppose that’s another draw for me. I like classy touches, and bookends fall into that category often.

4. Fine writing instruments. My all-time favorite vendor for Waterman pens has to be Levenger. I don’t usually plug businesses here, but over the years, Levenger has provided me with reliable, aesthetically pleasing fountain pens and a plethora of cool “writer toys” that remain meaningful even today. The pen I typically use to start drafts (a Waterman Phileas) came from there probably about ten years ago, and the briefcase I use for all things writing-related is also a Levenger product. If you haven’t paid them a visit yet, I highly recommend it. The writer in your life will thank you.

5. Gift card #1: Staples. If you’ve been a regular reader of mine, you probably know by now about my unhealthy obsession with office supplies. My favorite store is definitely our local Staples. From paper clips to printer cartidges, Staples allows me to feed my fetish for writerly goods.

6. Gift card #2: B&N. Sorry, other booksellers. I’m a fan of Barnes and Noble’s brick-and-mortar establishments. Somehow, they’ve managed to preserve that certain air of old-school bookstores while staying current with technology and trends. And before my writer friends get upset with me for not patronizing my local small, independent bookstore, allow me to say that here in my location, we unfortunately don’t have such an animal. To use an old football idiom, here in my town you have to “go big or go home.” It’s BAMM or B&N, and the people under the green awning have better customer service skills and actual knowledge of their wares.

7. Gift card #3:   Apple. I love my iPad. I like my apps, my games, my music, and my movies. I try not to write using my iPad, simply because it’s so recreational — there are too many distractions there. But for everything else in my life, the iPad is a wonderful tool. I use it in the classroom, at home, on vacations, and in workshops, seminars, and classes. For everything that’s NOT writing-related in my life, my iPad is the perfect companion. (No, I was not compensated for saying this — it’s just true).

8. Vinyl records: I love the sound of music on vinyl. There’s such a history and an art that goes with listening to an honest-to-goodness record. Mostly, I use my record player for classical music. I have all my other media players for more contemporary stuff — PC, iPad, etc. do a perfectly good job with modern music, but for Handel’s Messiah and Arthur Fiedler’s Boston Pops, I gotta have my vinyls. Call me antiquated if you will.

9. Coffee. Not the stuff in a blue can from the grocery store, the good stuff. Yes, I grind my own beans. And yes, I do have three separate coffeemakers in my house: French press, percolater (percolator?), and finally, Keurig single-serve. I typically use the big French press for company, the percolator for Sunday mornings when everyone is having coffee, and the Keurig for everyday, nothing-special single cups. That hackneyed expression about “a little blood in my caffeine stream” holds true here. Coffee is my gasoline.

10. Gift subscriptions to my favorite magazines. By keeping in touch with what’s happening on the literary front, I’m better equipped when sending out submissions and manuscripts. The great thing about getting subscriptions for Christmas is that the gift is enduring — every time a new issue arrives, I’m reminded of the person who kindly thought of me and my ambitions.

So, there you have it — one Florida poet’s guide to giving for the coming holiday season. If you’re out fighting the insane crowds today, good luck. And here’s hoping that you get everything on your wish list, as well.

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Hemingway’s Distance

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 When the great author of The Old Man and the Sea was in Michigan, he wrote about Paris. Likewise, when he was in Paris, he wrote of Michigan. In speaking with other poets and writers, I have found there to be a common link among creative types: The farther (in every sense of that word) we are from our dearest subjects, the stronger our writing about it becomes.

For instance, when I return to my family homestead many miles south of here, I am not automatically inspired to compose lines about it. The spirit of the place is too strong, too close. Also, the peace I experience there is too great for the fevered activity of poetry composition. The old place’s effect is soporific on my muse, but once I’ve left and I’m on the road or even back at my current suburban home, then the poetic flood begins to rise. Images, sensations, memories, and the whole of the family farm experience (past or present) sets itself heavily on my writing mind.

Time also serves as a literary “distance” filter: Consider Wordsworth’s famous lines above Tintern Abbey, written five years after the visit took place. By having hindsight, the truest and most poem-worthy elements of an experience can rise like sweet cream to the surface of our consciousness. The traumas and impressions of the present are intensified by having some chronological separation. Only the strongest details remain after delay. Sometimes this separation can be mere hours, other ideas may require years for processing. It all depends upon the severity and sincerity of the inspiration in question.

I am not advocating the idea that writers shouldn’t “strike while the iron is hot,” however. If one is overcome by the NEED to write at a moment, then by all means, don’t let that desire cool in apathy. The Beats would tell us that our first thoughts are our best thoughts, but the discerning voices before and after that generation would advise us to refine those first thoughts into something far more elegant.

The big picture is just this: If you want to create truly reflective writing, then some form of distance is necessary. It doesn’t always have to be as radical as Michigan to Paris, but stepping back from the subject is advisable for any creative endeavor. If you don’t believe me, just ask “Papa.”

poetry, Uncategorized

The Expected Rejection

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I’ve written before about my “rejection practices,” but this little tidbit deals more with a specific type of rejection: the expected one from the MAJOR magazine.

Today in the mail, I got a rejection slip from a powerhouse national magazine whose literary prominence is known far and wide. No personalized notations were on this slip, and of course, I hadn’t really anticipated any. My main motives for annual submissions to huge magazines with slush piles the size of Everest are twofold, really: 1. Doing so keeps me humble, and 2. It gives me some sense that my work has been in front of influential editors, even if they did reject it.

This next statement sounds terribly snobbish, but honestly, the proficient poet becomes accustomed to better-than-average acceptance rates from smaller literary magazines. When one sends work predominantly to fledgling journals and up-and-comer markets, acceptance and kind words become a fairly regular occurrence, with a few apologetic rejections along the way. Editors, for the most part, are appreciative to receive your work, and you as the writer are pleased to be published. It’s a great relationship, and one I never take for granted.

On the flipside of this publishing coin, however, is the danger of egotism. After so many acceptances, the writer’s head can grow quite large if not checked. Something has to level out the mountaintop experiences of mutliple publications in smaller journals to maintain balance. Rejection from The New Yorker, The Atlantic, or other major publications helps to keep the poet realistic and attached to modest roots. Granted, any rejection helps to accomplish this, but the coldly impersonal rejection slip from enormous national publications is the best of all ego-crushers. No explanation, no “we really liked this, but…” statements, just a flat-out “NO,” worded as generically and insensitively as possible. Tough luck, Mr. Wordsmith…no dice. (EDITORS: Please don’t interpret this graf as a request for more rejections; I have enough for a while, thanks.)

Certain writer friends of mine have this conspiracy theory that  big-time mags rotate off the poems of about 12 different renowned writers each year, and that any submission from someone without name recognition is immediately dismissed without a second thought. For now, I remain optimistic that editors and publishers are serious when they state in their guidelines that they are “devoted to discovering new voices.” Truthfully, if I were in their positions and I had to choose between rockstar fellowship winners or Joe Blow the small-town unknown, I’d probably make the same decisions they did: Publish the identifiable, decline the struggling. Empathy doesn’t make the rejection sting less, but at least it allows some justification.

My hope, of course, is that one day the tide of rejection from the “big boys” will stop, and I will finally be among the elite who manage to have their work carried in the prestigious pages of historic, culture-defining publications. For now, my small-time successes (see prior posts) sustain me and encourage me to keep going. Equally appreciated are the small magazine editors who reject work with thoughtful feedback, as well as the ones who accept my work with gratitude. Some of the best critiques I have ever received have been from the desks of truly devoted editors at college or “little” magazines. Their input has been invaluable, and hopefully, their refining suggestions will lead to bigger and better things as time progresses. For now, I have work to improve and send out, and for tonight, that’s enough.

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Politics and Poetry

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 Today is Election Day. In a vast departure from my usual blog fare, I am writing today about my political leanings. Prepare to be offended. You may stop reading here if you believe this post will make you angry.

As a group, poets have always been pretty politically active. Usually, that activism has been of the Berkeley-inspired sort, with Allen Ginsberg appearing naked or George Saunders writing tongue-in-cheek about being Ayn Rand’s lover (see the latest New Yorker).

Artists and poets have historically professed to being open-minded and accepting of all. And yet, watch what happens in writing groups or seminars when a conservative voice enters the picture. Suddenly that open-mindedness is nowhere to be found, and ugliness quickly enters the scene. All the anti-bullying rhetoric that these same “compassionate” people spout daily somehow gets forgotten in the barrage of name-calling and slur-shouting. Hypocrisy at its finest. It’s as though people who vote Republican or even conservatively Independent aren’t welcome in the “literary clubhouse.” The children already inside have posted a poorly lettered sign that reads, “No Patriots Allowed.” After all, patriotism is a notion that shows some kind of loyalty or devotion; strictly verboten ideas to the hedonists, nihilists, atheists, and radicals who nailed together the clubhouse in the first place.

This statement takes me back to a few years ago when a friend of mine was banned from a coffeehouse for reading a poem that the business owner considered “too right-wing.” What happened to freedom of speech there? Does it only apply to my liberal friends? Why is burning a flag okay, but expressing legitimate concern over our national debt suddenly taboo? The questions could go on and on.

Certainly conservatives are not exempt from the hand of this accusation, either. “The Ol’ Boy Club” has been around for generations, and there is good reason why the artists and creatives of our society felt the need to become a clique of outsiders in the first place. Now the outsiders, however, are those within the arts who cherish ideas like religious liberty, traditional family values, a strong military, the right to life, the freedom to defend one’s home and family, or giving just and swift punishment to those who commit heinous acts against innocent others. These are the very tenets that our ancestors fought and died for, writer and reader friends.

For a moment, however, let’s leave behind any issue that is not directly related to writing and the arts. Let’s assume that today when you go to the polls, you want to vote for the candidate who has done the most to support these two ideas. One candidate leveraged the arts into prominence, supporting music and creativity-based programs in schools while supporting business and individual liberties. The other candidate slashed 13 percent of funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities AND from the National Endowment for the Arts. You do the math.

The polls will open in about half an hour here. I plan to make my vote count. I hope that you plan to do the same, friend. And I hope that my assertive utilization of the First Amendment has not in any way negatively impacted your view of me as a writer. At the end of the day, what really counts is my performance, not my politics.

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Daniel Pink’s Theories and NaNoWriMo

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I have never participated in National Novel Writing Month, and I do not plan to do so this year. I actually kind of object to the whole concept. I know: It works for a lot of people who ordinarily would not find the impetus to sit down and write 1,600 words per day (or whatever the “magic number” is). At the end  of one month, they find that they have created a lot of prose. Good for them.

Moreover, there are many success stories from writers about the manuscripts they created during this time of forced productivity. Several NaNoWriMo authors have found their books picked up by publishers, and some have even won awards. I congratulate them. But this post really isn’t about how NaNoWriMo works for other people. It’s about how it works for me, personally. Call it selfish if you will, but I think enough people share my quandary to warrant exploration of the topic.

When I was in my first round of grad school, I became an amateur philosopher for a while in the quest to make a John-Nash-like “new discovery,” only in the field of education rather than mathematics. I read works by Paolo Freire, John Dewey, Lev Vygotsky, Aristotle, and more modern names like Malcolm Gladwell and Daniel Pink. I related to Pink’s research because he consolidated and clearly stated exactly what I, and others like me, had known innately all along: We don’t do well what we aren’t motivated to do, and we aren’t motivated by a lot of things that corporate America has always used.

Pink identifies main “drivers” like autonomy, mastery, and purpose. Here is where my objections to NaNoWriMo come into play: Once I sense that something is “mandatory,” and I sense that it has been made that way by something or someone beyond myself, immediately I resist. I have had to overcome this instinct in the workplace and in graduate-level study — there are certain mundane tasks that others assign me that simply must be done, and so, my compliant “good soldier” self must supersede my most ingrained instincts to rebel against the compulsory. It is difficult, at best.

Why, then, if I know that I am “programmed” to shun the mandatory, would I choose to ruffle my own proverbial feathers? NaNoWriMo is a choice that quickly devolves into a chore. Engineered and engaged in by others, the purpose of NaNoWriMo is defeated by its “club-like” nature. When a self-improvement task begins to develop organizational properties, I then begin to hear its death knell. The only structure that truly succeeds is one decided upon by the individual, and in this case, the individual has given over that control to a group’s expectations instead. Failure for me as a writer would be inevitable. Some may call this assertion stark pessimism, but my own intrapersonal understandings tell me that it is valid. I have engaged in enough metacognition to know that my “rebel writer” within would sabotage any attempt by outside forces to control or “streamline” my creativity.

In addition, I could much more easily be devoting that time to endeavors I not only choose, but also design for myself. My fulfillment will be higher, my sense of accomplishment will be greater, and my enjoyment will make the tasks intrinsically rewarding. This reasoning is largely why I am a poet. My greatest contentment is found within the self-made structures, routines, and practices of an independent poetry writing life. I will probably never be a millionaire due to this simple satisfaction, but in the pursuit of my passions, I will be exponentially happier than I would be under the stressors and rigid constraints of affluence.

No, readers. I will not be participating in NaNoWriMo. When at last I sit down to begin “the great American novel,” it will be because the muse and my heart have impelled me to do so, not because I allowed a conjured-up contest to crow-bar its way into my creativity. Daniel Pink is right, and my right-brained life proves his correctness time and time again. I choose to succeed in my own way. How about you?

 

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The MFA — “Legitimizing” writers

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I’ve always been a writer. Even when I was very young, I would write fantastic stories about spies and detectives, and as I matured, so did my writing tastes and styles.

At this point, I proudly call myself a poet. I’ve had work published pretty regularly, I have a book of my own out there, and while poetry doesn’t keep the lights on and the kids fed, it does contribute something to my existence (see prior posts). With that being said, I always felt that it was pretty important to have something that proved my “writerness” more than just bylines and a strong publication history. Hence, my enrollment in the University of Tampa’s Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program.

Yes, I know many of my writer friends out there will quickly jump to the assertion that you don’t “need” a piece of paper proclaiming that you are indeed a writer. With that said, however, the benefits of the MFA program have so far been many and great: I’ve been able to meet and speak with renowned writers, I’ve gotten an inside view of the publishing industry, and my own abilities have become refined as a result of my enrollment.

For some writers, the MFA works. Others believe that a good writing critique group can yield the same outcomes. I disagree. Your writers’ group probably will not  get you introduced to the likes of Philip Levine or Lucille Clifton. If it does, I’d love to know what group you’re attending.

Likewise, it seems that an awful lot of very well-intended people who have been told they have “talent” wind up in writing clubs or groups that are community-based. They bring in their latest piece about granny’s quilt or pappy’s old dawg and expect it to be given the same level of thought as work by Chaucer, all because their ailing mother gave them high praise for rhyming the words “bone” and “home.” Perhaps I’m being a bit snarky here, but I’ve seen this happen.

You get what you pay for, folks. The MFA is an investment in a writing career. If you desire for your writing to be a serious part of your life and not just a hobby, then a degree is the path to that reality. If you’re satisfied being a local celebrity and the “big fish in the small pond,” then maybe a writers’ group is best. As for me, I plan to keep plugging away at the ole sheepskin. One year down, one to go!