Syllabics are my favorite form this week, I think. I love the loose structure of it. Sure, Haikus and sonnets have interesting forms and structure, but they are so structured, they're kind of stifling. Maybe I respect them more, in a sense, because of it, but I can't find myself every find enjoyment in partaking something that obsessed with structure (there is so much irony in that, half of which has to do with how excited I am to try my hand at a villanelle).
Anyways, back to syllabics. In this case, you have an obvious form you have to stick to, but it's up to the poet just what that form is--no one tells you how many syllables to choose. I like that a lot. Not to mention, as my blog title says, I'm a prose person, so sometimes I get bogged down by my lines. Syllabics will help with that because you have to choose your words so carefully. Best words, best order, right?
It's definitely the type of poem I'm trying this week and after that, I might go back and rework a few older poems. There is one I have in mind (three page poem, no joke; but it was very much not single space), where I love the concept and some of the lines, but it just doesn't work...at all. Maybe this will help.
P.S. My favorite poetry form to try from time to time is one that consists of a series of repeating lines. Who else loves the ironyyy?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
9. Books and Movies and Inspiration...Oh my.
I know I've already said this approximately 15 times on this blog, BUT...
If I was forced to pick a "favorite" book (blah), it would be The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. I'm blissfully in love with this book (do I need anything else?), for its story, for its characters, for its commentary and especially for it's poetic prose and the wide array emotions, all explained beautifully. It's a book I could read, then go back to the first page and read again. I want to put it, as well as a couple of other things, on here this week because it's what inspires my writing and it's what I hope to one day be able to achieve.
To understand the quotations, you'll have to understand at least a brief context. The book is written in in first person, but through two character's POVs, Henry and Clare...it takes a little while to get used to that, but once you do, it's easy to read. The story, as suggested in the title, is about the romantic relationship between Henry DeTamble (a man with a genetic mutation that causes him to time travel), and Clare Abshire. What's great is that though the book is so rooted in Henry's time traveling, you're able to believe this is a real, everyday kind of thing. As Mrs. Parks would probably say, it's not sensationalized. Henry meets Clare for the first time when he's in his late 20s, but Clare meets Henry when she's a small child (as a result of an older-Henry traveling back in time). At the heart of the story, you really see Clare's loneliness and how it seems she's always waiting for Henry to return. This quote really exemplifies that:
"Sometimes he disappears unobtrusively; I might be walking from the kitchen into the hall and find a pile of clothing on the floor. I might get out of bed in the morning and find the shower running and no one in it. Sometimes it's frightening. I am working in my studio one afternoon when I hear someone moaning outside my door; when I open it I find Henry on his hands and knees, naked, in the hall, bleeding heavily from his head. He opens his eyes, sees me, and vanishes. sometimes I wake up in the night and Henry is gone. In the morning he will tell me where he's been, the way other husbands might tell their wives of a dream they had: "I was in the Selzer Library in the dark, in 1989." Or: "I was chased by a German Shepherd across somebody's backyard and had to climb a tree." Or: "I was standing in the rain near my parents' apartment, listening to my mother sing." I am waiting for Henry to tell me that he has seen me as a child, but so far this hasn't happened. When I was a child I looked forward to seeing Henry. Every visit was an event. Now every absence was a nonevent, a subtraction, an adventure I will hear about when my adventurer materialized at my feet, bleeding or whistling, smiling or shaking. Now I am afraid when he is gone."
The emotion in that, for me, is fantastic. The idea that she was, as a child, so excited to see him (though waiting anxiously for his return, too) but because she had that, she has to lose him now? So sad, but in such a great way.
On another note, a favorite movie (because in this case, the movie is tremendously better than the book). PS I Love You. Again, girly, right? Sure. But it's such concentrated emotion...I love it. Of course, at the moment, I can't find an example of it, but when I do, I'll edit this and put it on. Until then, my favorite quote from that movie is already at the top of my page.
From another movie, though, and I swear I'm almost done... the movie Stranger Than Fiction. Love the very metatextual feel of it, the concept of Writer as God and look at what we do to the people in our texts (because, really, aren't we sort of awful?). From it, this quote:
Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey! I don't want to eat nothing but pancakes. I want to live. I mean, who in their right mind, in a choice between living and pancakes...chooses pancakes?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you paused to think, you'd realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life people led...and, of course, the quality of the pancakes.
I put these on this week, only because they're things that have inspired me, in both poetry and prose. Even if the product hasn't come about yet, I've gotten a specific idea or ideas from each of these.
If I was forced to pick a "favorite" book (blah), it would be The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. I'm blissfully in love with this book (do I need anything else?), for its story, for its characters, for its commentary and especially for it's poetic prose and the wide array emotions, all explained beautifully. It's a book I could read, then go back to the first page and read again. I want to put it, as well as a couple of other things, on here this week because it's what inspires my writing and it's what I hope to one day be able to achieve.
To understand the quotations, you'll have to understand at least a brief context. The book is written in in first person, but through two character's POVs, Henry and Clare...it takes a little while to get used to that, but once you do, it's easy to read. The story, as suggested in the title, is about the romantic relationship between Henry DeTamble (a man with a genetic mutation that causes him to time travel), and Clare Abshire. What's great is that though the book is so rooted in Henry's time traveling, you're able to believe this is a real, everyday kind of thing. As Mrs. Parks would probably say, it's not sensationalized. Henry meets Clare for the first time when he's in his late 20s, but Clare meets Henry when she's a small child (as a result of an older-Henry traveling back in time). At the heart of the story, you really see Clare's loneliness and how it seems she's always waiting for Henry to return. This quote really exemplifies that:
"Sometimes he disappears unobtrusively; I might be walking from the kitchen into the hall and find a pile of clothing on the floor. I might get out of bed in the morning and find the shower running and no one in it. Sometimes it's frightening. I am working in my studio one afternoon when I hear someone moaning outside my door; when I open it I find Henry on his hands and knees, naked, in the hall, bleeding heavily from his head. He opens his eyes, sees me, and vanishes. sometimes I wake up in the night and Henry is gone. In the morning he will tell me where he's been, the way other husbands might tell their wives of a dream they had: "I was in the Selzer Library in the dark, in 1989." Or: "I was chased by a German Shepherd across somebody's backyard and had to climb a tree." Or: "I was standing in the rain near my parents' apartment, listening to my mother sing." I am waiting for Henry to tell me that he has seen me as a child, but so far this hasn't happened. When I was a child I looked forward to seeing Henry. Every visit was an event. Now every absence was a nonevent, a subtraction, an adventure I will hear about when my adventurer materialized at my feet, bleeding or whistling, smiling or shaking. Now I am afraid when he is gone."
The emotion in that, for me, is fantastic. The idea that she was, as a child, so excited to see him (though waiting anxiously for his return, too) but because she had that, she has to lose him now? So sad, but in such a great way.
On another note, a favorite movie (because in this case, the movie is tremendously better than the book). PS I Love You. Again, girly, right? Sure. But it's such concentrated emotion...I love it. Of course, at the moment, I can't find an example of it, but when I do, I'll edit this and put it on. Until then, my favorite quote from that movie is already at the top of my page.
From another movie, though, and I swear I'm almost done... the movie Stranger Than Fiction. Love the very metatextual feel of it, the concept of Writer as God and look at what we do to the people in our texts (because, really, aren't we sort of awful?). From it, this quote:
Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey! I don't want to eat nothing but pancakes. I want to live. I mean, who in their right mind, in a choice between living and pancakes...chooses pancakes?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you paused to think, you'd realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life people led...and, of course, the quality of the pancakes.
I put these on this week, only because they're things that have inspired me, in both poetry and prose. Even if the product hasn't come about yet, I've gotten a specific idea or ideas from each of these.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
8. Five Steps to Literary Perfection...
WikiHow... http://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Haiku-Poem
...A WikiHow on how to write a Haiku poem. Really?
Now, I know you can find just about anything on Wikipedia, and as such can find How-to step-by-steps on Wikihow, but I find the idea that they have instructions on poetry almost...degrading or insulting. To think it's that easy, that you can just give detailed instructions and create.
Lets look at this step by step--see if it's really this easy.
"Understand the way haiku is made. Haiku in Japanese is written in a single vertical line with seventeen sound units or mora (not strictly the same as syllables) in a rhythm of five, seven, and five. In English (a stressed language), the ideas can be expressed with a short line, a long line, and another short line."
Alright, makes sense. It's a form, and like all forms, you have to understand the parameters.
"Choose a season. Many haiku seem to focus on nature, but what they are really focusing on is a seasonal reference (not all of which are necessarily about nature). Japanese poets use a "saijiki" or season word almanac to check the seasonal association for key words that they might use in a haiku (thus the haiku is a seasonal poem, and thus often about nature, but does not have to be about nature if the seasonal reference is about a human activity). The season is important for coming up with words to use in a haiku."
Ah, I see. I just pick a season. There are only four...so, in essence, are all Haikus revolving around one of four basic themes? So for any other poem should I just pick a feeling? I'll just decide I want to write about "Happy" or "Angry"?
"Add a contrast or comparison. Reading most haiku, you'll notice they either present one idea for the first two lines and then switch quickly to something else or do the same with the first line and last two. A Japanese haiku achieves this shift with what is called a "kireji" or cutting word, which cuts the poem into two parts. In English, it is essential for nearly every haiku to have this two-part juxtapositional structure. The idea is to create a leap between the two parts, and to create an intuitive realization from what has been called an 'internal comparison.'"
Use a metaphor--crazy. No one has ever done that in a poem before. So far, all I have to do for poetry-gold is understand 5-7-5, pick a season (out of FOUR), and someone compare said-season to...anything. Alrighty.
"Use primarily objective sensory description. Haiku are based on the five senses. They are about things you can experience, not your interpretation or analysis of those things. To do this effectively, it is good to rely on sensory description, and to use mostly objective rather than subjective words."
Not quite as lame, but still, I think most good poetry does this. Your poem should have good, concrete ideas that LEAD to analysis; not just outright come out with the analysis. This is kind of obvious, when you only have the 5-7-5 form to get your ideas across, too.
"Like any other art, haiku takes practice. Basho said that each haiku should be a thousand times on the tongue. It is also important to read good haiku, and not just translations from the Japanese but the best literary haiku being written in English. To learn haiku properly, it is important to take it beyond the superficial or even sometimes incorrect ways it has been taught in most grade schools. It is important to distinguish between pseudo-haiku that says whatever it wants in a 5-7-5 syllable pattern and literary haiku that adheres to the use of season words, a two-part juxtapositional structure, and primarily objective sensory imagery."
Practice makes perfect!? WHAT?
Ugh. This just makes me angry. The point is, even with a literary form as simple and unmoving at the Haiku, no five step program is going to create something substantial. Art is not an algebraic formula, and no one will be able to say X+Y+Z with a dash of R= Poetry Bliss. It just doesn't happen that way. And if it does, something is wrong.
...A WikiHow on how to write a Haiku poem. Really?
Now, I know you can find just about anything on Wikipedia, and as such can find How-to step-by-steps on Wikihow, but I find the idea that they have instructions on poetry almost...degrading or insulting. To think it's that easy, that you can just give detailed instructions and create.
Lets look at this step by step--see if it's really this easy.
"Understand the way haiku is made. Haiku in Japanese is written in a single vertical line with seventeen sound units or mora (not strictly the same as syllables) in a rhythm of five, seven, and five. In English (a stressed language), the ideas can be expressed with a short line, a long line, and another short line."
Alright, makes sense. It's a form, and like all forms, you have to understand the parameters.
"Choose a season. Many haiku seem to focus on nature, but what they are really focusing on is a seasonal reference (not all of which are necessarily about nature). Japanese poets use a "saijiki" or season word almanac to check the seasonal association for key words that they might use in a haiku (thus the haiku is a seasonal poem, and thus often about nature, but does not have to be about nature if the seasonal reference is about a human activity). The season is important for coming up with words to use in a haiku."
Ah, I see. I just pick a season. There are only four...so, in essence, are all Haikus revolving around one of four basic themes? So for any other poem should I just pick a feeling? I'll just decide I want to write about "Happy" or "Angry"?
"Add a contrast or comparison. Reading most haiku, you'll notice they either present one idea for the first two lines and then switch quickly to something else or do the same with the first line and last two. A Japanese haiku achieves this shift with what is called a "kireji" or cutting word, which cuts the poem into two parts. In English, it is essential for nearly every haiku to have this two-part juxtapositional structure. The idea is to create a leap between the two parts, and to create an intuitive realization from what has been called an 'internal comparison.'"
Use a metaphor--crazy. No one has ever done that in a poem before. So far, all I have to do for poetry-gold is understand 5-7-5, pick a season (out of FOUR), and someone compare said-season to...anything. Alrighty.
"Use primarily objective sensory description. Haiku are based on the five senses. They are about things you can experience, not your interpretation or analysis of those things. To do this effectively, it is good to rely on sensory description, and to use mostly objective rather than subjective words."
Not quite as lame, but still, I think most good poetry does this. Your poem should have good, concrete ideas that LEAD to analysis; not just outright come out with the analysis. This is kind of obvious, when you only have the 5-7-5 form to get your ideas across, too.
"Like any other art, haiku takes practice. Basho said that each haiku should be a thousand times on the tongue. It is also important to read good haiku, and not just translations from the Japanese but the best literary haiku being written in English. To learn haiku properly, it is important to take it beyond the superficial or even sometimes incorrect ways it has been taught in most grade schools. It is important to distinguish between pseudo-haiku that says whatever it wants in a 5-7-5 syllable pattern and literary haiku that adheres to the use of season words, a two-part juxtapositional structure, and primarily objective sensory imagery."
Practice makes perfect!? WHAT?
Ugh. This just makes me angry. The point is, even with a literary form as simple and unmoving at the Haiku, no five step program is going to create something substantial. Art is not an algebraic formula, and no one will be able to say X+Y+Z with a dash of R= Poetry Bliss. It just doesn't happen that way. And if it does, something is wrong.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
7. How(e) I Relate to Eve
Part of Eve's Discussion
It was like the moment when a bird decides not to eat from your hand, and flies, just before it flies, the moment the river seems to still and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop, very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say, it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only all the time.
This is one of those things that I read and just keep thinking "I. Wish. I. Wrote. This." That doesn't happen often--usually I can enjoy a piece from afar, applauding a writer's talent and wondering 'What can I selfishly take from this?'-- but occasionally I want to be 100% selfish. I want it to be mine.
I feel like I could talk about this poem forever, but I'll narrow my love down to a few points.
First, I find it difficult to call this a poem--does anyone know if that's what it's "classified" as (wow, hate using that word in this context)? But because it's in a book of poetry, I'll call it that. The drastic shift from typical stanzas and line breaks is sudden (though at the beginning of the work) and we all know anything sudden draws your attention to it. The first time I read it, I didn't really read it, though. I quickly looked over it, then moved on to poems-proper. Now that I have, of course, it's my favorite.
The images and ideas, of course, are fantastic and though I may never have had a bird eat out of my hand, nor decline eating out of my hand, it's relatable. The way the ideas string together is my absolute favorite part, though--that she can use commas rather than any other punctuation mark and you can still read it logically, connecting the points together in a way that you otherwise wouldn't. It sets a fantastic rhythm, and I kind of obsess over rhythm.
The way this is written really reminds me of one of my favorite authors of all time, Audrey Niffenegger. I don't know if I can say she's a favorite author, because I've only read one of her books so far, but even though upon first glance at the plot the book seems like a sensationalized love story, it's not. Her writing style is absolutely gorgeous--expected images in a new way and long, drawn out lines, like in this poem. A quote from The Time Traveler's Wife can be found at the bottom of my Blog. So, of course, I liked that.
The title, too. As usual, I read the title but don't really think about it until I read through it, then I look back at it. It strikes me that the title is "PART of Eve's Discussion"...who else wants to know what happens before and after this??? Especially if it's written this way!
And last but not certainly not least, I'm relating to this poem big time right now. I have some hard-time stuff going on at home, and even if it's not what this poem is "about" (ew), it's exactly how I feel at the moment. Is that now the best thing--when you can read a poem and get lost for a while, forgetting everything going on in real life?
Friday, January 29, 2010
6. She Wore Only Long Sleeved Shirts
As me free entry this week, I'm going to post the poem I submitted for the first round of work shopping. Of course, I've already gotten everyone's comments and I've read over them several times. We all can't get orally-workshopped every week, though, and I ended up actually kind of liking this one, the problem is...I apparently didn't get across what I intended to. For anyone that is willing to, I'd really like for you guys to read over it one more time, then read my explanation of what it was SUPPOSED to be about, reread the poem, and help me out on what to add or remove to make that more apparent.
(Ignore the "___", indenting doesn't take on the blog, so I needed to get a bit inventive.)
______________________________________________________
She Wore Only Long Sleeved Shirts
Every morning she put on a long sleeved shirt
and always took a pen.
___Because Dave was still talking to her
___about his wife; Because Renee, the adrenaline-obsessed
___secretary could do something unexpected.
Every afternoon she hid from nonfiction dialogue
and prayed for fictional pain.
___Tales of desperation and death
___with life and loss and truth scratched
___their places into her wrists and then held on like 4-D tourniquets.
Every day she missed someone calling her attention
until she had no name.
___But--potential exotic names slashed
___vertically up her wrists, vaguely attached to lovely notions:
___loneliness, betrayal, envy.
Every night she scrubbed those arms no one saw until they bled,
raw and clean and smooth.
___She started over
___in a world where spring air
___got to taste like kiwi pear chamomile tea.
But she'd never had kiwi pear chamomile tea
Or connected notion to product.
Fictional pain became too 4-D
And Dave and Renee were too selfish to care.
And when she died the only writing she was commemorated by
was a reminder that she should rest in peace.
______________________________________________________
Alright. So, I think this is a perfect example for how a writer can totally, completely understand one of their ideas and THINK they present it clearly, but the connection ends up only existing in their head. That's apparently what happened here, because I still understand this poem as what I meant for it to be, though I can certainly understand all of the connections everyone made in workshop.
It's supposed to be about a writer. She writes ideas for stories (plot lines, character names, etc.) on her arms, but wears a long sleeved shirt so no one can see--so she can try to still fit in with "normal" people (of course all of this was also supposed to be an obvious connection to suicide, also).
Yes, of course there is a connection to cutting and suicide (I was feeling particularly frustrated with writing that night), but it's meant to ask the question "Is what we do worth it? Why do we slave over something insubstantial? Does it even matter?"
Honestly, I was worried the suicide aspect wouldn't play up enough (although upon rereading it is more apparent than I realized), and was expecting everyone to understand that it was about a writer, but I don't think anyone really did. Very much the fault of myself and not the reader, of course!
So, basically, my question is: What should I add or detract, what images should I play up or details should I put in to make this more obvious, to make my point actually come across?
And I encourage everyone to do this, if you have a poem you want more feedback on that you weren't able to get on your off-week of workshopping!
(Ignore the "___", indenting doesn't take on the blog, so I needed to get a bit inventive.)
______________________________________________________
She Wore Only Long Sleeved Shirts
Every morning she put on a long sleeved shirt
and always took a pen.
___Because Dave was still talking to her
___about his wife; Because Renee, the adrenaline-obsessed
___secretary could do something unexpected.
Every afternoon she hid from nonfiction dialogue
and prayed for fictional pain.
___Tales of desperation and death
___with life and loss and truth scratched
___their places into her wrists and then held on like 4-D tourniquets.
Every day she missed someone calling her attention
until she had no name.
___But--potential exotic names slashed
___vertically up her wrists, vaguely attached to lovely notions:
___loneliness, betrayal, envy.
Every night she scrubbed those arms no one saw until they bled,
raw and clean and smooth.
___She started over
___in a world where spring air
___got to taste like kiwi pear chamomile tea.
But she'd never had kiwi pear chamomile tea
Or connected notion to product.
Fictional pain became too 4-D
And Dave and Renee were too selfish to care.
And when she died the only writing she was commemorated by
was a reminder that she should rest in peace.
______________________________________________________
Alright. So, I think this is a perfect example for how a writer can totally, completely understand one of their ideas and THINK they present it clearly, but the connection ends up only existing in their head. That's apparently what happened here, because I still understand this poem as what I meant for it to be, though I can certainly understand all of the connections everyone made in workshop.
It's supposed to be about a writer. She writes ideas for stories (plot lines, character names, etc.) on her arms, but wears a long sleeved shirt so no one can see--so she can try to still fit in with "normal" people (of course all of this was also supposed to be an obvious connection to suicide, also).
- Dave and Renee are characters.
- She's too obsessed with fictional things (fake characters, big themes like desperation and loss and life, obscure but beautiful descriptions, like a spring air that gets to taste like kiwi pear chamomile tea) to really live in the real world (which relates to "Every day she missed someone calling her attention/until she had no name.")
- Despite this, she washes her arms off every night and starts over and when she dies, she's produced nothing.
Yes, of course there is a connection to cutting and suicide (I was feeling particularly frustrated with writing that night), but it's meant to ask the question "Is what we do worth it? Why do we slave over something insubstantial? Does it even matter?"
Honestly, I was worried the suicide aspect wouldn't play up enough (although upon rereading it is more apparent than I realized), and was expecting everyone to understand that it was about a writer, but I don't think anyone really did. Very much the fault of myself and not the reader, of course!
So, basically, my question is: What should I add or detract, what images should I play up or details should I put in to make this more obvious, to make my point actually come across?
And I encourage everyone to do this, if you have a poem you want more feedback on that you weren't able to get on your off-week of workshopping!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
5. One-Liners are not Heroic
I don't know if I can say I have a favorite type of stanza, or anything like that. I was...confused by the concept of a one-line poem. I guess it takes a lot of effort and talent to convey something in one line, where every single syllable counts, but I also don't feel that you can say a lot in one line. At least, nothing substantial? I guess I just feel that you need a couple of stanzas (or, rather, several lines considering a single stanza is acceptable). Of course, nothing is as dreaded as the prose poem I dislike so much!
If I have to pick a type, I'm most interested in the potential of heroic couplets. In the stanza packet we read it says, "it was a form in which a high subject matter could be written." I think you could play with that idea a lot, through irony or some other means. On nationhumanitiescenter.org it says: "What happens in poems has a lot to do with what is going on in a particular society at a particular time." That fits, too...how 21st century is it to take something nearly perfected in the past, something so classic, and pick it up and turn it on its head while keeping the essence of it? I don't know, but I just love the entire concept behind that.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
4. In My Time of Dying, Music is Your Guardian Angel. It is Permanent, it is my Last Train Home: Music and Poetry
In reading everyone’s introduction posts, there was a theme that seemed to wiggle it’s way in every so often: Music. Though not everyone, it seems most of you have some kind of intense connection to music. Maybe it’s a direct response to being a group of creative individuals, but regardless of that reasons behind it, I’m really interested in the way it plays in to writing.
I’m sure I’m not the only one that listens to music while I’m writing. It’s part of my “creative process,” without a doubt. I generally write after reading something really great or seeing a movie that was fantastic--anything that inspired heightened emotion, really. I write best when surrounded by noise and activity (I’ve gotten over some of my most stubborn periods of writers block when sitting in a booth at the skating rink after I finish my shift). However, as much as I love having that commotion around me, I get distracted by people-noise, like talking or laughing, and so I use music to tune it out. Does any one else find it so easy to tune out a song you love even when it's blasting in your ears, when it’s so difficult to tune out your mother’s voice shouting about dinner?
Classical music is sometimes the best for me, maybe because of the lack of words. I can listen to pianos and violins and just instantly slip in to that zone (and I know you all know what zone I’m talking about). In the same fashion, I can listen to a great Three Days Grace song and be pumped to write something high-energy. David Cook, my personal emotional-savior, can inspire just about anything from me.
And then there are songs that I’ve come to associate with finished works--Ryan Star’s Last Train Home, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus’s Your Guardian Angel or the Foo Fighter’s My Hero. The same goes for Counting Crow’s Color Blind, or Bethany Joy Galeotti’s…anything. Listen to Bethany Joy’s Quicksand, at 2:20, and tell me the urgency in her tone isn’t beautiful? That it doesn’t make you want to write something that parallels it perfectly. These are all songs that inspired some piece of writing that I love and so listening to them either reminds me of that, or makes me want to write something else I love.
I mean, isn’t it great when I song just works and suddenly you realize you’re not the only person to have ever felt this way? Songs can be deciphered in a thousand different ways, just like poems.
How does that play out for all of you? What songs or bands inspire you? Or is there something else, some other component of your creative process that is an absolute must-have?
I’m sure I’m not the only one that listens to music while I’m writing. It’s part of my “creative process,” without a doubt. I generally write after reading something really great or seeing a movie that was fantastic--anything that inspired heightened emotion, really. I write best when surrounded by noise and activity (I’ve gotten over some of my most stubborn periods of writers block when sitting in a booth at the skating rink after I finish my shift). However, as much as I love having that commotion around me, I get distracted by people-noise, like talking or laughing, and so I use music to tune it out. Does any one else find it so easy to tune out a song you love even when it's blasting in your ears, when it’s so difficult to tune out your mother’s voice shouting about dinner?
Classical music is sometimes the best for me, maybe because of the lack of words. I can listen to pianos and violins and just instantly slip in to that zone (and I know you all know what zone I’m talking about). In the same fashion, I can listen to a great Three Days Grace song and be pumped to write something high-energy. David Cook, my personal emotional-savior, can inspire just about anything from me.
And then there are songs that I’ve come to associate with finished works--Ryan Star’s Last Train Home, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus’s Your Guardian Angel or the Foo Fighter’s My Hero. The same goes for Counting Crow’s Color Blind, or Bethany Joy Galeotti’s…anything. Listen to Bethany Joy’s Quicksand, at 2:20, and tell me the urgency in her tone isn’t beautiful? That it doesn’t make you want to write something that parallels it perfectly. These are all songs that inspired some piece of writing that I love and so listening to them either reminds me of that, or makes me want to write something else I love.
I mean, isn’t it great when I song just works and suddenly you realize you’re not the only person to have ever felt this way? Songs can be deciphered in a thousand different ways, just like poems.
How does that play out for all of you? What songs or bands inspire you? Or is there something else, some other component of your creative process that is an absolute must-have?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
3. Modes of Creativity
I’ve had some pretty horrendous ideas for stories before.Stories, poems, scripts, everything.
Of course, at the time, they all seemed brilliant, worthy of critically-acclaimed attention, if only I would show someone. It makes me feel better that most of these ideas happened when I was younger (around 13 I wrote fifteen chapters about a girl named Cam…and nothing happens. In fifteen chapters, all she does is go to the park and talk to her friends. Sounds a little Mrs. Dalloway, huh? Too bad I'm not Virginia Woolf and I can definitely not pull that off).
Anyways, the point is, I think that maybe some of those horrible ideas I had, at the very essence of them, may have been heading in the right direction. Maybe whatever it was that I was trying to say could have become something substantial and I just wasn't using the right medium.
I took a class on Creativity a few semesters ago and I ended up having to address this topic. We used poetry, photography and another medium of our choosing (mine being painting) and it was basically about learing how to develop our of creative process. I had an idea for a poem that I desperately wanted to write; well, it was less of an idea really and more of the emotion inspired by an image. In the end, I realized that a poem wasn't right for this particular idea and I ended up using a painting instead. Granted I have no ability whatsoever when it comes to that mode of art, so I didn't accomplish what I'd hoped for, but it taught me something nonetheless.
As "poets" I think we need to be open to using other modes of expressing creativity, maybe we need to come to terms with the idea that all ideas aren't suitable for a poem. There's other genres of writing, of course: different styles of prose, short stories, scripts, etc., and then there are all other types of art....drawing, painting, music, sculpture, photography, just to name a few well-known ones. People create using everything from a paper and pen, to sheets of metal to what they find outside or in dumpsters.
I'm interested to know how all of you decide that your idea is best suited for poetry, and if you ever think to write it in another way. I'm primarily a fiction writer, so I lean towards that without thought, but sometimes I suddenly realize that maybe I need to think outside of the box a little. This discussion is particuarly important to my work because it's what this class is really all about for me...as I said, I'm not a poet. I shy away from it as often as possible and this semester I'm hoping to open myself up to another mode of creativity, or at least to the thought that not all ideas are necessarily right for prose.
How do all of you choose what form to express that creative inkling in? How do you decide what it will turn in to, what subject to use to transfer your meaning to your reader? Or, if you never think about anything other than poetry, how do you choose what form of poetry to write it in when there are so many different types? Is it a choice, or do you feel like the decision is made for you?
Who knows, maybe "BFF??" has unrealized potential and it just failed epically (as a serious poem, while soaring brilliantly as a joke poem) because it was being narrated in the wrong way.
Of course, at the time, they all seemed brilliant, worthy of critically-acclaimed attention, if only I would show someone. It makes me feel better that most of these ideas happened when I was younger (around 13 I wrote fifteen chapters about a girl named Cam…and nothing happens. In fifteen chapters, all she does is go to the park and talk to her friends. Sounds a little Mrs. Dalloway, huh? Too bad I'm not Virginia Woolf and I can definitely not pull that off).
Anyways, the point is, I think that maybe some of those horrible ideas I had, at the very essence of them, may have been heading in the right direction. Maybe whatever it was that I was trying to say could have become something substantial and I just wasn't using the right medium.
I took a class on Creativity a few semesters ago and I ended up having to address this topic. We used poetry, photography and another medium of our choosing (mine being painting) and it was basically about learing how to develop our of creative process. I had an idea for a poem that I desperately wanted to write; well, it was less of an idea really and more of the emotion inspired by an image. In the end, I realized that a poem wasn't right for this particular idea and I ended up using a painting instead. Granted I have no ability whatsoever when it comes to that mode of art, so I didn't accomplish what I'd hoped for, but it taught me something nonetheless.
As "poets" I think we need to be open to using other modes of expressing creativity, maybe we need to come to terms with the idea that all ideas aren't suitable for a poem. There's other genres of writing, of course: different styles of prose, short stories, scripts, etc., and then there are all other types of art....drawing, painting, music, sculpture, photography, just to name a few well-known ones. People create using everything from a paper and pen, to sheets of metal to what they find outside or in dumpsters.
I'm interested to know how all of you decide that your idea is best suited for poetry, and if you ever think to write it in another way. I'm primarily a fiction writer, so I lean towards that without thought, but sometimes I suddenly realize that maybe I need to think outside of the box a little. This discussion is particuarly important to my work because it's what this class is really all about for me...as I said, I'm not a poet. I shy away from it as often as possible and this semester I'm hoping to open myself up to another mode of creativity, or at least to the thought that not all ideas are necessarily right for prose.
How do all of you choose what form to express that creative inkling in? How do you decide what it will turn in to, what subject to use to transfer your meaning to your reader? Or, if you never think about anything other than poetry, how do you choose what form of poetry to write it in when there are so many different types? Is it a choice, or do you feel like the decision is made for you?
Who knows, maybe "BFF??" has unrealized potential and it just failed epically (as a serious poem, while soaring brilliantly as a joke poem) because it was being narrated in the wrong way.
Friday, January 15, 2010
2. Rhyming, Responsibility and Annabell Lee. Which one doesn't belong?
How do we choose our favorite poem? If it goes against everything we think about poetry, how can it be my favorite?
I want to point something out early in my blogging because it's something I strongly believe about writing and think it really applies to poetry, too, so I'd love to get everyone's opinion on it.
First and foremost: What is a writer/poets goal? What, even, is their duty, or... responsibility? Is our allegiance to ourselves, our work, or our audience?
I said, in my opening entry, something along the lines of: Writers write for themselves first, and then edit for other people later. That is basically the core of my beliefs when it comes to writing--that a writer should sit down with no one else in mind, should only write for enjoyment and, more particularly, to understand; to understand themselves (*ignore the cliche*), to understand their opinions on a subject, to...understand.
After that initial connection with a work, though, how does our responsibility change? Is it our "job"to make it relate to the reader, or does that fall in to their own hands? Should we just hand over our work and say "Here, world. Something happened to me, and I wrote this...make of it what you will, but if I change it at all, it won't be the same, so I won't. Deal with it."?
I started asking those questions tonight because I was thinking about my favorite poem. Every time I'm asked what my favorite poem is, I easily answer with the same one. "Annabell Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe.
Annabell Lee
Edgar Allen Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
This poem, essentially, goes against all of the things I believe about writing. Honestly, what do I know about the love of my life dying? About tuberculous? There is absolutely nothing in this piece that I can attach to, understand, relate to. Still, I love it. In general, I do not like poetry that rhymes at the end. Still, I love it.
Even more than that, I know the reason I love it is the rhythm of it, which of course is very much because of the end rhyming I usually hate so much. Everything I feel about poetry is negated in this favorite of mine.
Usually, I like to pick poems apart, decide word by word what it means, why it was chosen, what ulterior meanings I can give it that even the writer knew nothing of. I've never done that with Annabell Lee. I take it as a very surface level poem, a man mourning the loss of a love, something Poe could of course relate to. Maybe I love the poem because of that, or because I feel for the speaker despite not understanding his pain. Did Poe accomplish something, then? By making someone with no experience in this area, with absolutely no way of relating to the subject or the characters, sympathize with the narrator...did he do his "job," do justice to his responsibility? Am I justified in liking this poem because of that?
I guess, more than anything, I want to know if a writer has a responsibility. And if so, to whom? Again, I usually say that once you've reached the stage where you accept that your writing is more than personal (accept that you'll allow others to read it), you should accept that it is your job to make your reader understand, to take part in that self-knowledge you should have set out for. Am I right? Or do we have a responsibility only to ourselves? Or to someone else? Why do I love this poem that goes against what I thought I believed?
Thoughts, opinions, objections?
I want to point something out early in my blogging because it's something I strongly believe about writing and think it really applies to poetry, too, so I'd love to get everyone's opinion on it.
First and foremost: What is a writer/poets goal? What, even, is their duty, or... responsibility? Is our allegiance to ourselves, our work, or our audience?
I said, in my opening entry, something along the lines of: Writers write for themselves first, and then edit for other people later. That is basically the core of my beliefs when it comes to writing--that a writer should sit down with no one else in mind, should only write for enjoyment and, more particularly, to understand; to understand themselves (*ignore the cliche*), to understand their opinions on a subject, to...understand.
After that initial connection with a work, though, how does our responsibility change? Is it our "job"to make it relate to the reader, or does that fall in to their own hands? Should we just hand over our work and say "Here, world. Something happened to me, and I wrote this...make of it what you will, but if I change it at all, it won't be the same, so I won't. Deal with it."?
I started asking those questions tonight because I was thinking about my favorite poem. Every time I'm asked what my favorite poem is, I easily answer with the same one. "Annabell Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe.
Annabell Lee
Edgar Allen Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
This poem, essentially, goes against all of the things I believe about writing. Honestly, what do I know about the love of my life dying? About tuberculous? There is absolutely nothing in this piece that I can attach to, understand, relate to. Still, I love it. In general, I do not like poetry that rhymes at the end. Still, I love it.
Even more than that, I know the reason I love it is the rhythm of it, which of course is very much because of the end rhyming I usually hate so much. Everything I feel about poetry is negated in this favorite of mine.
Usually, I like to pick poems apart, decide word by word what it means, why it was chosen, what ulterior meanings I can give it that even the writer knew nothing of. I've never done that with Annabell Lee. I take it as a very surface level poem, a man mourning the loss of a love, something Poe could of course relate to. Maybe I love the poem because of that, or because I feel for the speaker despite not understanding his pain. Did Poe accomplish something, then? By making someone with no experience in this area, with absolutely no way of relating to the subject or the characters, sympathize with the narrator...did he do his "job," do justice to his responsibility? Am I justified in liking this poem because of that?
I guess, more than anything, I want to know if a writer has a responsibility. And if so, to whom? Again, I usually say that once you've reached the stage where you accept that your writing is more than personal (accept that you'll allow others to read it), you should accept that it is your job to make your reader understand, to take part in that self-knowledge you should have set out for. Am I right? Or do we have a responsibility only to ourselves? Or to someone else? Why do I love this poem that goes against what I thought I believed?
Thoughts, opinions, objections?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
1. Inside Looking Out
Where to begin? It seems impossible to explain who I am in one short introduction, because I have nineteen years of ME, and if I can really sum that up in one blog entry, what does that say about who I am?
I could tell you I spend my weekends grinning as a party hostess or posing as Bat Girl, depending on my mother's mood, before changing out of my cartoon-character blue uniform and in to the person my group of tight-knit-always-feuding group of friends know. That girl is the type who carries at least two types of hand sanitizer at all times and is a little too honest with the people that matter. That girl is a fiction writer, whose essays are always three pages longer than they were allowed to be. That girl loves to go out to eat by herself, would rather see a movie alone than otherwise, and has a paralyzing fear of relationships that not even she herself understands, much less any one else.
I could tell you my favorite color (purple), or my favorite TV show (Charmed, followed by Supernatural). I could tell you about my parents, my younger brother and sister, the Venezuelan exchange student living in my house. We could discuss the plethora of books I adore, all for different reasons (The Time Traveler’s Wife, the Sword of Truth series, Pride and Prejudice, The Scarlet Letter. Twilight.)
I could tell you I’m a Sophomore at West Georgia this year, and all about wanting to be a fiction writer supporting herself with an Editing career. Maybe give you details on the fanciful image I have of myself in the future: living in a pristine glass house in the middle of the woods, being a normal, functioning person in society by day and a happy, partially-crazed writer by night.
And though all of that is entirely true, will anyone really remember that? Probably not. What you’ll come to know about me throughout the semester is who I am on paper (more real than anything else, and don’t you just love the juxtaposition of what I mean and what the saying “on paper” means? I do.); what aspects of my past, present and future life shape the writing I manage to produce.
You’ll see the affect my two wonderful, loving parents had on me…the two people who dragged me kicking and screaming from my comfortable life on Long Island, NY five years ago, insisting I would easily fall in love with our new home down South, where it the Summer season was so much longer (I hate the Summer season), the winters much less cold (I love the cold), and where there were still flowers in February (I mean, really, who cares?). In that same instant you’ll see a girl who doesn’t know how to coincide an adoration for her new, Southern friends with an intense longing for her best friend of fifteen years. In a way, you’ll all know me better than any of those people. You’ll see that, though I preach self-confidence to everyone with a pitiful expression on their face or a few self-loathing words, I wish I didn’t need everything straight, germ-free and in multiples of three.
I believe that you write for yourself first, and edit for other people later; that more than anything else a writer should use their work to learn what they think about a particular subject and then make it relatable for other people. I think writers need to be selfish, and then self-deprecatingly selfless. We need to be uncomfortable with writing, and we need to have a love-hate relationship with that discomfort, because as soon as we’re comfortable with it, we’re no longer writers. We need to have strong characteristics in order to know who we are, or we’ll lose ourselves to our characters whims. I believe that no one cares what we believe, and we need to know that, too.
Essentially, I believe writers live in a world of paradoxes, and I hate to love to hate that. I don’t really need to introduce myself fully, because anything I tell you now will be surface level compared to who I’ll become to you throughout the semester. I’m terrified of that, but I welcome the challenge.
I could tell you I spend my weekends grinning as a party hostess or posing as Bat Girl, depending on my mother's mood, before changing out of my cartoon-character blue uniform and in to the person my group of tight-knit-always-feuding group of friends know. That girl is the type who carries at least two types of hand sanitizer at all times and is a little too honest with the people that matter. That girl is a fiction writer, whose essays are always three pages longer than they were allowed to be. That girl loves to go out to eat by herself, would rather see a movie alone than otherwise, and has a paralyzing fear of relationships that not even she herself understands, much less any one else.
I could tell you my favorite color (purple), or my favorite TV show (Charmed, followed by Supernatural). I could tell you about my parents, my younger brother and sister, the Venezuelan exchange student living in my house. We could discuss the plethora of books I adore, all for different reasons (The Time Traveler’s Wife, the Sword of Truth series, Pride and Prejudice, The Scarlet Letter. Twilight.)
I could tell you I’m a Sophomore at West Georgia this year, and all about wanting to be a fiction writer supporting herself with an Editing career. Maybe give you details on the fanciful image I have of myself in the future: living in a pristine glass house in the middle of the woods, being a normal, functioning person in society by day and a happy, partially-crazed writer by night.
And though all of that is entirely true, will anyone really remember that? Probably not. What you’ll come to know about me throughout the semester is who I am on paper (more real than anything else, and don’t you just love the juxtaposition of what I mean and what the saying “on paper” means? I do.); what aspects of my past, present and future life shape the writing I manage to produce.
You’ll see the affect my two wonderful, loving parents had on me…the two people who dragged me kicking and screaming from my comfortable life on Long Island, NY five years ago, insisting I would easily fall in love with our new home down South, where it the Summer season was so much longer (I hate the Summer season), the winters much less cold (I love the cold), and where there were still flowers in February (I mean, really, who cares?). In that same instant you’ll see a girl who doesn’t know how to coincide an adoration for her new, Southern friends with an intense longing for her best friend of fifteen years. In a way, you’ll all know me better than any of those people. You’ll see that, though I preach self-confidence to everyone with a pitiful expression on their face or a few self-loathing words, I wish I didn’t need everything straight, germ-free and in multiples of three.
I believe that you write for yourself first, and edit for other people later; that more than anything else a writer should use their work to learn what they think about a particular subject and then make it relatable for other people. I think writers need to be selfish, and then self-deprecatingly selfless. We need to be uncomfortable with writing, and we need to have a love-hate relationship with that discomfort, because as soon as we’re comfortable with it, we’re no longer writers. We need to have strong characteristics in order to know who we are, or we’ll lose ourselves to our characters whims. I believe that no one cares what we believe, and we need to know that, too.
Essentially, I believe writers live in a world of paradoxes, and I hate to love to hate that. I don’t really need to introduce myself fully, because anything I tell you now will be surface level compared to who I’ll become to you throughout the semester. I’m terrified of that, but I welcome the challenge.
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