One of our Twitter followers, Jose Alba, asked us this question yesterday, and I wanted to post my response on the site. I work hard with my students to get them to understand that when it comes to poetry, they just really need to say what they want to say, and not hide behind obtuse metaphors.
When I got to Pacific University, I made the same mistake as many other young “poets,” and felt like I knew everything. I even had a “book” of poems called Artificial Grey, that I had typed up, and had spiral bound. I think I made 10 copies of it to give to my family and friends. I also thought it would be a great idea to give it to my poetry advisor, Professor Walls. I felt like he should know how fantastic I was. He gave me a faint smile (one that I give my high school students when they now hand me their books), and gladly accepted my work. Instead of just throwing it away, he went through each poem in the book – I think there were close to 200 – and edited them all.
He never gave me any guff about it, and instead, worked hard to let me see exactly what I needed to do in order to better my writing. I had a class with Professor Walls every semester of college, and I owe him quite a bit when it comes to helping me figure out my style of writing – with poetry, fiction, and editorials. It’s a professor like that who is needed for young poets – young anything really.
Don’t worry about what your mother thinks of your language.
ELMORE LEONARD
#amwriting #writing #writetip
— Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) May 6, 2013
We all have a “Watcher,” a little being that sits on our shoulder, like a conscience, that reminds us of how terrible we are as writers, or artists, or as whatever we’re deciding to be that day. It’s inevitable that at several points in our lives, we will be over-taken by the words of our watcher, put down our tool of choice, and walk away with the feeling of utter frustration and pain. We are, after all, our own worst enemies, and the watcher is our own creation. In my Creative Writing class, I have my students draw a picture of their watcher, and explain its origin. It’s always interesting to see how many students draw their mother, or father, or a former teacher. I always wonder if it’s more than one of those people pushed them to work harder, and not simply that they were their toughest critic for the sake of being a critic.
In Gail Godwin’s essay, “The Watcher at the Gates,” she tells us that we must “outsmart, pacify, or coexist with your Watcher.” She gives us tools to work with when our watcher wants us to be constant pencil sharpeners, or dictionary lookers, or coffee drinkers. Setting timers when we write. Writing until the teapot sounds. For me, I write like to write where I know I’m being watched: my classroom while students are working (as I’m doing now), in a crowded mall where I feel uncomfortable, on a park bench in downtown Portland, or on a very specific tree at Cannon Beach. I guess in a way, I like my watcher to feel like it is being watched as well. It’s harder to doubt oneself, when the watcher feel uncomfortable.
It is not easy to avoid self-doubt. It’s the one thing that holds the majority of us back. I’m no stranger to the watcher. I finished a novel more than five years ago, only to be told that I needed to revise it one more time before the publishing company would take another look at it. I was upset, and frustrated, and chose the road most taken – which was to unfortunately shelve the book, and not do what I needed to do in order to possibly call myself a published novelist. I was scared of something, and frankly, it was the fear that I wasn’t as good as I thought I was. When I wrote the original draft, I wasn’t thinking about how anyone else would feel. I was just writing. It came out naturally, and easily, and a lot faster than I had ever imagined. But when I was told that someone else had issues with certain parts, it hurt me, and I didn’t take it as constructive criticism, but rather just criticism. I should have said “thank you,” hung up the phone, and completed the re-writes over the next few weeks. Instead, it sat until this last summer when I finally decided I would finish it up. Now, I’m sitting on it again, waiting to submit it, all because of the mystery watcher that questions if it’s really all that good.
As Elmore Leonard points out, we cannot “worry about what [our] mother[s] think of [our] language.” If we do, then we are bound to fail. Art is not about what other people think – at least not in the early stages. Creation is our job. Once we are finished with a product, and that product hits the world of public opinion, it is everyone’s to judge, but as long as we are satisfied, then it should never matter.
We’ve been at this whole website thing for a little over a week now, and we’ve amassed over 500 followers. That’s incredible. This little thing that started as a classroom project, has turned into three old college friends who have finally decided that they were ready to give their all to this mess called writing. We want to inspire people to write, to read, to think, and to talk to each other about what they are writing, reading, and thinking. But, how the hell do we do that?
We think our posts have been pretty good, and it seems like enough of you have found something to enjoy on the site so far, but we’re still trying to find our groove, and figure out the exact direction of The Poetry Question.
We truly need your help with today’s question:
What the hell do we do here? What would you like to see on this site?
@poetryquestion : At weddings and funerals, it’s usually poems that are quoted. Not prose.
— Margaret E. Atwood (@MargaretAtwood) May 4, 2013
I sure as hell hope that no one reads an essay at my wedding or funeral. In fact, if you’re even thinking about reading an essay when I die, or get married (assuming they are not taking place on the same day, because if they are, I hope someone writes a book about me), please don’t come. Actually, please stop being my friend. You are not welcome in my circle anymore.
Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaid’s Tale, Alias Grace, and countless other best-sellers, said it quite well in her response to me this morning: “At weddings and funerals, it’s usually poems that are quoted. Not prose.” Whether or not it’s a joyous or solemn occasion, no one wants to listen to anyone drag on about another person’s life. I attended a funeral last year, and there were seven essays read about the deceased. This person was a wonderful person, and I considered her a dear friend, but I don’t remember one damn word that was read in any of the essays. What I do remember is the poem about her hair. I remember that being the only grouping of words that made me weep.
If at Dylan Thomas’ father’s funeral, he had read, “If there’s one thing I could have wished for my father, it’s that he would have not have gone gently toward that good night, but rather raged – quite fervently – against the dying of the blah blah blah,” there isn’t one person who would have thought to instill his words into the common English lexicon. Instead, he writes:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The ability to capture such honest emotion so perfectly, in a mere set of cadenced words, is the reason why Thomas’ piece has been recited over and over again for the last near century.
While it may be difficult to capture a person’s life in a few short stanzas, I promise, those words will live on long after the Eleonor Rigby’s of the world have cleaned up the church.
I don’t remember ever having the choice, or thought process, that I would do anything other than go to college after high school. There were moments where I wondered about some other possibilities, but the reality was simple: I was going to college, and I was going to get a degree, and a job within that area of study. My mom was a teacher, and ever since I can remember I was helping with lesson plans, and with her classroom set up, and tutoring students, and working with her during summer school. I enjoyed teaching, and around the age of twelve, it became obvious to me that I was going to be a teacher. I think for a moment I thought about psychology, and for a longer moment about being a rock star, but teaching was in my blood, and I’m stubborn, so that was my final decision.
I hated high school. I did well enough to keep my parents off my back, and to allow my teachers to understand that I definitely didn’t lack intelligence, but not well enough to ever earn honor role, or ever pretend like I was going to be one of the super smart kids to head out to an ivy league wasteland of snobbery and excess. By my junior year, I had figured out how to work the system. I missed 87 days of school because I “had mono, and just never really recovered.” At least that’s what I told the attendance lady, and since I was her 1st period aide, I was able to avoid the parent phone calls, and snag a few pads of excuse slips in order to assure that I would never get caught. I was bright enough to call my teachers and ask for my homework so that I could keep my grades above sea level, and I made sure that I never missed more than two days in a row. It was important to at least attempt to keep up appearances. I was just bored in my classes. It wasn’t that I was skipping school to go do drugs, or drink, or party, or do anything stupid. In fact, I skipped school to hang out at Powell’s Books, or Django Records, or the library. Sometimes I would even let my boss know that I was skipping school, and work a few extra hours. I just didn’t see the point in wasting my time at school if I could do the homework, get decent grades, and still do the things I wanted. I got through junior year just fine, and had taken enough night school and summer school classes – all by choice – so that when it came to senior year, I only needed a few classes, so I was done with the school day by 10am, and ready to move on with life.
The rest of the story is pretty basic. I went to a Pacific University on the weight of my perfect ACT scores, and my college entrance essay. I enjoyed my college experience immensely with all the normal college kid things, graduated with honors, and immediately enrolled in Pacific’s MAT program so I could get my grad degree and start my life as a teacher. How drab.
Somehow, I now teach the youth of today, and most of those “yutes” (Come on! You’ve seen My Cousin Vinny!) don’t give a crap about college. In fact, most of them would turn out to be incredible industrial workers, or carpenters, or mechanics, or Boeing engineers, or any hands-on type of worker. Unfortunately, the school system doesn’t see it that way. Unfortunately, students are forced to sit through classes they don’t care about, don’t want to be in, and frankly, don’t need for their future. But with the current system, if they don’t pass their classes, they can’t get that piece of paper, and walk across the stage, and figure out which junior college to attend before using absolutely none of those skills to do the job that they want to do, and waste several years getting to the job that works for them – and some of them getting so lost along the way, that they never return to their original goal. It’s sad.
I’ve never been a “college-or-else” teacher. I don’t think it’s necessary. I wish students were allowed to leave high school their sophomore years and begin apprenticeships in things they actually care about. Those who want to stay in school and work toward a degree in arts and letters would stay in high school, and venture to college, but beyond that, what’s the point? We’re wasting our most valuable resource – teenagers.
I know this website deals with mostly language, so I’ll end by bringing it back to that. Today, a student of mine named Andrew, brought this beautiful poem to my attention. It’s by a slam poet named Suli Breaks. It was just one more reminder that my students – even those who aren’t paying a ton of attention to the normal educational system – are truly paying attention to the education that they want to have. The school system is broken, and as a teacher, I feel that it is my job to fix it from the inside out.
Here is the poem, by Suli Breaks, called “Why I Hate School, But Love Education.”
A Twitter follower of mine, RXheadz ( @AZeekiel ) made an offhand comment about writing with a Quill. It got me to wondering if a person could even find a quill pen anymore. While there seem to be several options for them around the internet, I discovered a site that walks you through how to build your own.
I’m not the most handy person, but I might give this a try. If you choose to make your own, please post a photo so we can all take a look!
While at my parents’ house a few weeks ago, I noticed something vaguely familiar on the kitchen counter: a floppy disc; It’s faded green label, holding the scribble of my childhood signature. My best guess puts this artifact near 25 years old, I would have been six, and so it probably contains my earliest writings. Unfortunately, it won’t work on my PC disc drive at work, and I don’t have an Apple II anymore, or an apple that can run a disc drive, so I have no way – at least not yet – to know what treasures it contains.
In my home office I have every notebook, scrap of paper, metacog-log, written-in novel or textbook, and printed copies of the majority of my middle school, high school, and college papers. While some of them may now be crumpled and faded, un-filed, and in no particular order, they are at least readily available. The pieces on that disk, are not.
Over the last ten years, I’ve transitioned from notebooks and scrap paper, to computers and cell phones. I can’t remember the last time I picked up a pen to write in a journal. Instead, I type, hit save, close the application, and assume that everything will still be there when I return. Sometimes I bank it up to a thumb drive. Sometimes I store it in “the cloud,” but most of the time, I simply leave it on a device that could crash at any point, and lose my hard work. In fact, I’m currently thumbing out this piece on my iPhone, while sitting in a plane heading back to Portland. How does this new found technology not scare me? How am I, like the majority of writers, now leaving things to chance, or the hope that someone at the Apple Genius Bar will be able to recover my files?
What happens to this generation’s version of the floppy disc, when next generation’s i-whatever comes along? Time to hit print on those thousands of pages, file them away, and hope there’s never a fire, flood, or magic shredder looking for your valuable words.
The Poetry Question of the Day: Traditionalist or modernist?
