Thursday, 19 March 2015

Can Writers Read Too Much?



As an insatiable reader I would automatically answer the question the title of this post poses with a vehement No! But as a writer, I'm beginning to wonder if there is such a thing as reading too much.

Reading, it goes without saying, is essential to writing. It is the yin to its yang. One can't exist without the other. They're the two sides of one coin. One the passive part, the other the active, a type of verbal inhalation and creative exhalation. But when engaging in both these sides, is it necessary to find balance between the two? Like a see-saw, will one go down if the other goes up? It's all about achieving balance. And recently my scales have been off (by a truckload of books).
 

What exactly is reading too much? On an ordinary scale, until your eyes hurt would usually be a tip-off. Or until words kick up a blunderbuss through your head obscuring fiction and reality (ahem, guilty, several times over). But for a writer to read too much? What does that mean when writers, out of all people, read SO much? It is a part of their work after all. But what is the quantity of reading that will impede upon writing? And can it really impede, as its primary function is first and foremost always to encourage?

On the one hand I feel like I am feeding the furnaces of writing with reading so many books; on the other, like I am shutting them off. I love to read. All writers love to read, all encourage wide reading if you want to be a writer (Stephen King advises us to read 'a lot'.  MFA writing courses have lengthy reading lists.) But I wonder - how much reading exactly? Because it is an activity that could prove infinite - once you start, you just can't stop! I find myself while in the midst of a reading binge wanting to write, but, ultimately putting it off. Wait until this book is finished, which inevitable becomes another book and another book.

You may all have heard of and read the iconic textbook on creativity Julia Cameron's 'The Artist's Way' and found it inspirational, stimulating, encouraging to the highest strata. I loved it yes. I cherish it as one of the most inspirational guides to writing ever written, but there's just one component of it I had trouble with. And no it was not the controversial morning pages (I did groan at them but liked them), but rather the chapter where she urged us NOT TO READ. Yep, to effectively ban reading from our daily schedules for two weeks I think it was, so that our own ink could flow better. 

I never liked that idea, but I did try it. But my 'reading diet' only lasted for a while. I mean, how can you not read? She insisted it was because it could be a distraction to writing. The idea being that it's easier to read than write. Easy to pick up a book than a pen, a feather as opposed to a heavyweight. And I suppose, easy to get discouraged by all the greatness of literature to ever pick up a pen again. But really, easier to hide away in the already written word than to be the one out there forging it. All the better, she urges, to hear our own voice. I suppose she has a point. 

                                                              

I'm thinking of this now as I realise I've been doing a lot of reading lately. Because I let my reading slide for a long hiatus once, I am now even more determined to get stuck in.  I'm on Goodreads and love the challenge of trying to read 50+ books within a year. I deliberately took this number so I could read a book a week or thereabouts, a good balance I thought. But - big BUT - I have noticed that my writing time has suffered in the process. 

I'm not the only writer to feel like this. I came across a quote from Susan Sontag recently that echoes this feeling in a blunt admittance: "I read too much - as an escape from writing". In a Paris Review interview talking about how she gets started writing, she said: "Getting started is partly stalling, stalling by way of reading and of listening to music, which energizes me and also makes me restless." That's it exactly - reading energizes us, puts us in the take-off point for writing, but too much of it and not enough writing can indeed make us 'restless.' I often stall writing too by reading and listening to music. (At this point in the post, I have listened to a full album on repeat and read about five articles on Susan Sontag, not to mention a few other blogs AND found another book to order in the course of all that...)


I haven't written a lot in a while. My spare time has been more easily filled with books. And I suppose if you have the slightest bit of writing block, books can soon turn it into a Berlin Wall Blockade. They fill the hours with their quiet insistence and their word-worlds swarm around your head, leaving no room for burgeoning ones of your own. It's not so much a case of stage-fright when it comes to your own blank page, but more like so many words buzzing in your head it's hard to find your own in their (marvelous) cacophony.

Looking at the daily routines of famous writers, it is clear that they distinctly differentiate reading and writing, most to the strict tune of writing first - dawn or morning and reading second - evening usually, when all the 'work' is done. I wonder is there an optimum time for reading and an optimum time for writing? Or does it depend solely on mood or preference?  Is it better then to write in the daytime and read at night? Or what about your one precious hour of free-time - read or write? One is relaxing, the other invigorating. If I read at night, I sleep sound. If I write at night, I'm up all night, brain buzzing in a blizzard of words. I try to do both every day, ideally equally, but my pattern of late has been reading first, writing second. Or a few days binge reading and then binge writing. 

I have loved my reading time recently, but am missing my writing time. Maybe there is a limit that needs to be imposed in order to write at a more efficient pace. I'm thinking now maybe it is necessary, as Julia Cameron advised, to go cold turkey on reading in order to be in serious writing mode, well at least a little bit cold turkey. I suppose you can't  make headway on your novel while your head's down the rabbit hole of another book can you? 

The act of reading subconsciously preps the mind's terrain for the act of writing. It is fuel for the fire of writing. For this reason I feel, as all writers likely do, that the more I read, the better I will write and to this account, can end up reading for days and days without writing. But I'll admit the relative 'easiness' of it is a kind of luxury limbo I can fall into now and then. To drag myself out of it and actually put myself into writing mode again feels like dragging yourself out of a cosy warm bed in the morning, the duvet too much of a comfort to discard just yet, it being also an incubator for dreams. 

 

I read a really interesting article recently criticising MFAs in which the writer said something really evocative - that writers ('real writers' ahem) read from childhood so as to form the appropriate 'neural architecture' required for writing. Don't you just love that phrase?! From it I picture an inner Rococo mind with cascading columns on which cherubic angels of inspiration alight, crossed with a flickering neon super-accelerated sci-fi-like set. Writing is hard-wired into our minds alright and every new piece of literature we read adds another feature to this architecture. But it's important to realise that this neural architecture is there - waiting for us to start reaping its glories.

Whatever about a time to read and a time to write, there has to be a time to know when one over-arches into the other's territory. I remember the days of writing assignments at college in which there was an 'incubation period' first, usually 1-4 weeks, in which research was done and knowledge gleaned, a time to collect all the necessary content and stimuli.  And then, just like that, a time to stop and get down to the writing of it, a sort of D-Day of deliberation. You knew it when it happened: your own fully-formed opinions would pulse to be processed, ripe for the picking. To spend more time researching was a kind of cop-out, a faltering, a delusion and frankly, with a deadline looming - a danger. You were ready. It was now or never. I'm thinking it is the same for writing now, albeit with no deadline looming, except the personal ones. Now, it is even more imperative to impose those D-Days especially when you can lose the run of yourself in reading. To harness the 'energy' of reading as Susan Sontag put it, and dispel that 'restlessness.'
   
I wonder what is the process for other aspiring writers - how do you balance your reading with your writing? Should there be a balance? Do you go on occasional reading diets to feed your writing?  Advice appreciated! 



~Siobhán. 



Saturday, 14 February 2015

Love Poems To Make You Smile (And Maybe Swoon)



Love poetry is of course, the jewel in poetry's crown. It is the main reason why many a poet first got into the tricky business of writing poems. I'm willing to bet that almost every one of us has attempted to write a love poem at least once in our lifetimes, if not for a Valentine's card then as a spontaneous diary scrawl, be it in a moment of mirth or stoic seriousness. As Plato said, 'at the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.' When love has assaulted our every sense, poetry is the only medium that is capable of relating and understanding. It can measure up in words to the glorious heights of feeling love inspires and as such, is proof proper of its power.

When I say 'love poem' I'm curious - what pops into your head? The cliched juvenile refrain of 'Roses are red, violets are blue' I bet? Or the reliable posturing of Shakespeare's 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day'?  Maybe Elizabeth Barrett Browning's 'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways'? It seems to  me that when we think of a love poem, it is nearly always an antiquated one with whorling sentiments galore, or an overly sentimental slushy thing that we should approach only with caustic cynical caution. But, I am here today to tell you, that needn't be the case. 

I'm so fed up with finding traditional love poems everywhere, from articles to anthologies with the usual suspects: Ben Jonson, John Donne, Byron, Shakespeare, Sir Philip Sydney, Cristina Rosetti, Shelley and the likes all trumpeting on about some airy-fairy notions of love in some trumped-up verse! As an English major, I am aware I may be committing some act of treason here, but as a truth-devoted opinionist, I feel it my duty to admit that these old traditional love poems just don't do it for me, or for that matter, a majority of readers. Well, some of them (like Keats) are just fine (and sublime) in moderation, but to have every article - 'Love Poems Everyone Should Know' (I'm looking at you The Times) - and love poem anthology saturated with them is just bloody tiresome at this stage! Not to mention a tad elitist and stuffy.  Especially when there are so many GREAT contemporary love poems out there, unanthologised and often unacknowledged. 

In comparison, these 'classic' love poems all sing to the same beat, like manufactured pop today (well they were a manufactured sort of genre back in the day). Hello editors - there are other love poems out there!! What are you trying to do - put people off reading poetry? Have them see love as something frilly and fluffy and farcey? Because face it, some of these old woo-some gems are simply boring, trite and puffed-up pomp.

Contemporary love poetry is a genre full of wit and originality. It is not so much concerned with generating feeling as more attesting to it, as subtly and surprisingly as possible. It doesn't spurn sentimentality; rather it transforms it into something more tangible and real.  No trumped-up embellishments here. It is genuine, born from real emotion not a competitive literary trend and therefore forced inspiration, and each poem, most especially, is marked by a personal testament that touches on love as a thing universally felt, but uniquely experienced. Tolstoy said 'there are as many types of love as there are hearts' and today's love poetry adheres and showcases this opinion. 


So I've picked out a few of my favourites to share with you here today on Valentine's Day, in an effort to convince any of you thinking that love poems are waffle to show you evidence of the contrary. And of course, to jump at the chance of showcasing more poetry on this blog (as always).

The first poem that pops into  my mind when I think of an 'original' love poem is this ode, by Kenneth Koch, a wonderfully inventive poet who always uses language in the most vivid way. Here he talks of how much he loves his lover, in an almost puzzling and flummoxing original set of comparisons:

To You - Kenneth Koch 

I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut
That will solve a murder case unsolved for years
Because the murderer left it in the snow beside a window
Through which he saw her head, connecting with
Her shoulders by a neck, and laid a red
Roof in her heart. For this we live a thousand years;
For this we love, and we live because we love, we are not
Inside a bottle, thank goodness! I love you as a
Kid searches for a goat; I am crazier than shirttails
In the wind, when you’re near, a wind that blows from
The big blue sea, so shiny so deep and so unlike us;
I think I am bicycling across an Africa of green and white fields
Always, to be near you, even in my heart
When I’m awake, which swims, and also I believe that you
Are trustworthy as the sidewalk which leads me to
The place where I again think of you, a new
Harmony of thoughts! I love you as the sunlight leads the prow
Of a ship which sails
From Hartford to Miami, and I love you
Best at dawn, when even before I am awake the sun
Receives me in the questions which you always pose.

 
Don't you just love that line -  'I am crazier than shirttails in the wind'?! The whole poem is 
vivaciously vibrant in its choice of content and uncanny descriptions. There can be doubting 
its sincerity when the poet went to these lengths to describe something that has fallen into 
an one-size-fits-all description territory. The result is a fanfare of the fantastic potential of 
love to push boundaries and the exuberant feelings it evokes.

A poem that reminds me somewhat of this is a riff on the traditional Valentine's poem, from 
Ogden Nash. In it Nash,  another gung-ho stylist, compares how much he loves his lover not 
in the conventional sense, but on the flip side - in negative ccomparisons, citing all the pains 
and irritations in life. The effect is startlingly original, not to mention funny and clever. The 
rhyme adds to the overall humour:

To My Valentine -  Ogden Nash

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me. 

To be loved 'more than a toothache hurts' is a love that can't be denied I suppose!  
Powerful, to say the least, ahem.

But wait, if you think that was blunt, have a look at this one from him: 

Reflections on Breaking The Ice - Ogden Nash

Candy
Is Dandy
But liquor
Is quicker. 

Indeed... You can't argue with that. 

A real love poem I think has to have one main ingredient: sincerity. And what's the best way 
to express sincerity? Simple language, ordinary scenario. In this poem by Wendy Cope, we 
encounter the effects of  love in the subtle realisation that the ordinary things of life have 
suddenly become extraordinary for the speaker, and the result is sheer gladness, a kind of 
citrus blaze:

The Orange - Wendy Cope  

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.

The simplicity of this poem is disarming. Wendy Cope is master of such affecting understatement. Another love poem of hers similar to this one is 'After the Lunch', which expresses the reality of love in the midst of the commonplace:

After the Lunch - Wendy Cope

On Waterloo Bridge, where we said our goodbyes,
The weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I’ve fallen in love.

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. You’re high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?

On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You’re a fool. I don’t care.
The head does its best but the heart is the boss —
I admit it before I am halfway across.

Falling in love is perfectly rendered here. She doesn't mince words and there are no airs or graces to it. From this, the effect is all the more true and believable. Love not as some grand orchestra-strung event, but a 'jukebox inside playing a song', a homely kind of epiphany.

Speaking of fruit comparisons, how's this for a neat summing up of love? -

What Love Is Like - Piet Hein

Love is like
a pineapple, 
sweet and
undefinable.  

Is a pineapple undefinable? What about its prickly exterior? Hmm, there might be more metaphors to be got there... 

Another poem that shows a manifestation of love in the commonplace is Billy Collin's 'Love.' In it the narrator is witness to a love story playing out beside him on a train.  His deadpan factual observance of a young besotted boy and his muse gives way to a sort of miraculous revelation at the end:

Love - Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if he were afraid or expecting someone

and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in

and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.

She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.

And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,

whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.

And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

The poem ends with a resounding crescendo of love manifesting in the midst of the ordinary. Love, as a miraculous phenomenon, is easily believable here as compared to all of  those traditional wordy cooings. It's in the simple gestures of love, that its divine nature is to be caught.

But maybe you find these all a tad saccharine? Well contemporary love poems do take account of this entitled cynicism. Trust Margaret Atwood to debunk the romance, attacking the meaninglessness of the word 'love' itself:

Variations on The Word Love - Margaret Atwood
This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go. 

Yes, you might relate better to Mrs Atwood's sharp sentiments. You can't deny that it's not 
true or real - always refreshing traits when it comes to good love poetry. That description of 
love as a 'mouth that says O again and again in wonder and pain' is a pretty accurate 
description to me. 

Contemporary love poetry is nothing if not surprising.'The Kiss' from Stephen Dunn is 
maybe one of the most original love poems I've come across in a while, taking its inspiration 
from a typo, of all things:


The Kiss - Stephen Dunn

She pressed her lips to mind.
                                —a typo


How many years I must have yearned
for someone's lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows 
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she's missed. 
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek's ear,
speaking sense. It's the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. we married as soon as we could.

A mind kiss - not that's something not to be dismissed. Marvelous musing.

Former American Poet Laureate Ted Kooser can do short and sweet love poems faultlessly. 
Sparingly, he creates little notes on love with a deft hand and endearing results.  This one 
particularly like:

Map of The World - Ted Kooser

One of the ancient maps of the world
is heart-shaped, carefully drawn
and once washed with bright colors,
though the colors have faded
as you might expect feelings to fade
from a fragile old heart, the brown map
of a life. But feeling is indelible,
and longing infinite, a starburst compass
pointing in all the directions
two lovers might go, a fresh breeze
swelling their sails, the future uncharted,
still far from the edge
where the sea pours into the stars.

Like this? You can read more of Ted Kooser's love poems over on my Poem a Day blog 
today. He has an entire collection of Valentine poems he's written over the years that 
showcase his ability to take anything and write a love poem about it, in the most unexpected 
ways. A keen  characteristic of love itself.

Another deftly written poem celebrating love is Alice Oswald's 'Wedding'. What I love about 
it is the soaring swinging language that evokes the effect of a lifting-off from the ground, in 
what is an imagined progression of love's evolution in a relationship. It speaks of  reeling 
heights, and the lanuage reels out to accomodate this, without being superfluous or 
overdone. Rather, tentative and revelatory to make a sublime finish:

Wedding - Alice Oswald

From time to time our love is like a sail
and when the sail begins to alternate
from tack to tack, it’s like a swallowtail
and when the swallow flies it’s like a coat;
and if the coat is yours, it has a tear
like a wide mouth and when the mouth begins
to draw the wind, it’s like a trumpeter
and when the trumpet blows, it blows like millions…
and this, my love, when millions come and go
beyond the need of us, is like a trick;
and when the trick begins, it’s like a toe
tip-toeing on a rope, which is like luck;
and when the luck begins, it’s like a wedding,
which is like love, which is like everything. 

So there you have it, a small selection that shows love poetry doesn't have to be a pompous 
affair or a bland bore!

There's probably so many more good love poems I've not mentioned here  - the popular and
unconventional 'Valentine' by Carol Ann Duffy is one that came to mind of course,  but I've 
posted it already on this blog so had to leave it out. EE Cumming's 'i carry your heart' too 
has become a popular staple of contemporary love poetry. If I've missed any of your 
favourites - please feel free to share them here and share the love.

Have a happy poetic Valentine's!


~Siobhán 




Sunday, 1 February 2015

Sunday Morning Musing: A Poet's Advice to Students

 
EE Cummings portrait ~ by Fabrizio Cassetta on Fine Art America

'A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.' 

On individuality, voice, and the real feat of feeling in poetry, there is much to mull over here in this advice (posted below) from one of my favourite poets, EE Cummings. 

I'm particularly struck by his surmise that when we use words like other people 'we are not poets.' In being a poet as he sees it (feels it), it is essential to be an individual too ('nobody-but-yourself') and to have a distinct voice of one's own, one that is imbued with feeling. Of course his poetry is a demonstration of this, an unique eureka of originality with an individual style so grand it could almost stand alone as a genre. In his manipulated syntax and grammar Cummings found a style that readily expressed modes and depths of feeling like none before, eliciting a 'feeling first' reaction in the reader. In fact, to wholly interpret an EE Cummings poem, it is necessary to feel it first - to probe at it with the antennae of the subconscious and sensory self, not that of the logical analytical mind. Logic impedes it, feeling frees it.

Language is a medium full of possibilities Cummings' poetry proves. Much like the human brain, we only use a small percentage of its capability, leaving its vast potential mostly untapped. To write poetry is to tap in to some of it, but here Cummings urges us to tap more. To go beyond. To not settle for the norm. His poetry pushed the boundaries of language to open up a whole new realm of discourse: one of feeling first. He succeeded (most dazzlingly) in finding an individual and authentic voice, unparallelled in the poetry canon. 

If you're not familiar with his work, I urge you to have a look. You will be amazed, puzzled and dazed. And more liberated to push the boundaries of your own voice into the wonderful colourful domain of Individual. 

*(You can read a selection of ee cummings poems: here)
 
To individuality and authenticity!


~ Siobhán 




Thursday, 29 January 2015

Notes From An Aspiring Author


Since it's a New Year, I'm going to try something new here: an update on my status as an 'aspiring' author, just to keep you in tandem with my new observations and thoughts on the writing process, the various trials and tribulations and small victories there may be. If you are an aspiring author too - which I know many of you are and more - do feel very welcome to chip in and share your own experiences. It's a lonely profession this writing. 

Besides, I really like that prefix 'aspiring' don't you? It has so much... desire in it. Yes, if desire and ambition were to be coupled and melded into one word it would very much be: aspire.

~Aspiring
My definition: To aspire is as necessary as to respire. It denotes living, breathing, doing, seeking, an earnest ever-there trying. It speaks of a life that is lived in the hope of fulfilling, of becoming. To hope and to hold the horizon in your heart with all your breath, with all your power. To be always leaning towards a destination, like a newborn bud to the light of the sun. To grow in the light. To follow the light. To be a bud brimming with a bloom. To direct all your energy towards one bright and shining goal. To nurture it. To push potential to actuality, carefully trilling the tutting, pouting, hesitating, posturing of 'im' out of impossible, to clear the way for the possible. An unconquerable Sisyphus. To say 'I am almost there', 'I want', 'I believe,' 'I know where I am headed', is to aspire to. To gain gargantuan heights. I will be, I will do everything I can to become this which is my fixed ambition. An affixed promise of becoming that which you desire the most, in all the world. In this case, a writer. 


And why is it that every aspiring writer seems an incognito, undercover, hidden one? It seems to be something you keep to yourself, like a secret - a heroic Superman kind of  secret. When it is revealed, it's like the air colours somewhat, a freshness, a revealing like none before.  But do we aspire towards a dream or a set-in-stone career? Because being a writer - ah - I mean an author, is a bit of both isn't it? It's both possible and impossible. Possible if you try outrageously, pour your whole self into it - time, energy, wherewithal; impossible if you don't - if you give in to doubt, to block, to rejections and all those afflicting bad vibes. But what's so exciting and unnerving about being an 'aspiring author' is that we are always hovering between these two polarities, torn between their different energies. We know it could all go one way or the other and so we stand on the cusp of potential poised to dive into a pool of stars or fall face-down on the floor. But, the very word 'aspiring' is a positive one I think. It is laden with intent, a foreseeing, a believing in what will be the next logical outcome: bud to bloom, amateur to master, effort to reward, writer to author. 

~New Writing Paraphernalia ~
I've started the New Year off in positive fashion buying new notebooks in the hopes of  kickstarting a whole new writing schedule (well, schedule is a bit optimistic - let's go with routine instead, ahem.)  My plan was to have one as a general notebook, another as a sort of journal for things like morning pages and observations (see The Artist's Way) and then I was thinking maybe another one for prose while I was at it, an additional one for articles, then one for keeping track of submission dates etc in what would be a super organised extravaganza, a first of its kind on my part. But alas, thrifty sense got the best of me when I thought hold on a sec, I need to stop buying and just start writing! So with their purposes a little eschew, here they are in all their shining finery: 


There's just something about a new notebook that makes you feel all shiny and new. And more motivated you know, to fill them. I think every aspiring author revels in buying them. So working from my first few fledglings of notes, here I am on this new blog endeavor. 

It's worth noting that I also bought a new pack of pencils, the novelty being I NEVER use pencils, even though so many writers swear by them (stodgy traditional stylists hmpf!) My thinking being maybe they'll stick around more than pens as they come in a case which I am determined to keep them in. (I can never keep a pen around me - I seem to repel them. In all my years of writing, I think I've gone through hundreds, maybe thousands of lost and found pens. Remember that film 'State of Play' with Russell Crowe as the hardcore investigative journo and the pen necklace he made for his rookie assistant Rachel McAdams who was always losing pens? Well, I'm thinking that's the lengths I will have to go to if I want to keep a pen on me. A writer with no pen, a builder with no tools - the irony, I assure you, never ceases to jab at my doubtful self's sensitivity to the query of 'am I in the right profession??!'). Anyway, the pencils are spectacular:
In pencil font, words flow across the page like water smoothing benevolent bedrock beneath. Nothing is permanent, so everything is possible, flourishing with a soft assurance. Words are a silk caress, a scarf blowing colours into the breeze. No longer blunt objects, hesitant scrapes and scores, but a confident fanfare of swirls and suave creations, curves of comfort, like ships put out to sea, unfurling their sails finally to the wind, sun shining starboard. 

I've also acquired a desk in the past few months, a real writer's desk. Well, what I like to call a real writer's desk - my desk for writing at least. It's a basic prop, but its symbolism is not to be underestimated. I've never really had a desk before assigned solely to writing, I've written anywhere and everywhere, laptop ad-hoc. Now I take to the testing task of sitting at it a few hours every day, without fail. Discipline. Does every aspiring writer possess this necessary quality (more like a Herculean feat at times) that the pros have I wonder? I forget which writer it is now, but I read that he uses an app that will delete all the words he has written in a day if he doesn't make it to such a number. Now that's scary motivation. Discipline is a stern enforcer which I am trying to cultivate. This desk, I hope, will be my trusted ally in this.

 
~Honesty and Writing~
I've been reminded lately of how writing has an inherent sort of lie-detector radar. You can speak untruths, but you can't so easily write them. Lots of things brought this to my attention recently, most especially the free speech debate which has erupted since the tragic Charlie Hebdo killings in Paris. If we are not allowed to write (and publish) what we think, what we want, no matter how offensive or unappealing it may be, then what? This I say in reference not just to the controversial magazine's content, but to the impassioned language that has sprung up in the debate in its wake. Why should we censor and repress ourselves? Language is a mode of expression - we may or may not use it wisely, but it must be up to each of us how to use it as it is a means of expressing one's self. We must be free to use it whatever way we choose, the only limits being those we impose upon ourselves as personal parameters. 'I shouldn't write this' is a million miles away from 'I am not permitted to write this.' We already impose sanctions on our speech in relation to social settings and sensitivities, but when it comes to print, to the written word, freedom of speech must reign. Provocation has always been a shock tactic, but have we always been so susceptible to shock by it? There have always been insults and out-of-line offensive publications; there has not, however, always been violent retaliation. If nothing else, what the whole Charlie Hebdo tragedy proves is that language, art, is a powerful, powerful medium, capable of eliciting passions and pains. 

See there's something about putting words on paper that filters through the residual sediment of speech to the embedded core of truth. Take diary writing for instance. It's confessional or not at all. Honesty is part and parcel of every writing process. People write letters when they have trouble expressing their true feelings to people. It's a way of tapping into the essential content of ourselves that can often get buried or submerged beneath layers of posturing and pacifying and social-pleasing. You can't write without honesty, and therefore it goes to say, without showing your self, without being your self. I think it was Jeanette Winterson who said: 'language is for revealing, not for hiding'. It's an implement of discourse, not disguise. And for people who use language slyly and strategically to confuse and to camouflage and to disguise their true feelings and intentions, then I say diddly squat! to them. Say what you mean, write it clearly and concisely and truthfully, or don't bother at all. In declarations, not obfuscations. And with no fear. No hesitations.

~Submisson Status~
Ah, time to face the minotaur in the labyrinth, take the podium stand naked, to enter a ticket - more like your ticking tenuous self with a holdall of heart and hope - in the harsh lottery of publishing. Yes, potential submissions are still in my head as we speak. Still mind-calculating what will go where and when the pieces are to be deemed 'ready' and me, their maker, willing. More on that next month! 

More ramblings to come, 

~ Siobhán 

~aka an aspiring author~ 




Wednesday, 28 January 2015

Making Poetry, A Poem Guide



What better way to talk about poetry than in a poem itself?  I love it when a poem comes along that illuminates the process of writing poetry that little bit more and illustrates just what a fine medium poetry is. 

What this kind of poem also reveals is the inherent mystery and modesty that go with writing poems. It's nice to know that accomplished, assured and skilled poets often have doubts (and therefore humility) when it comes to the poetry making process. Some of these recent discoveries I have to share here with all of you poetry-lovers and poets out there reading. As a poet, you don't get much advice or training in the craft - only from reading poetry - and these poems are both tutor and confidant. 

Billy Collins, one of my favourite poets, writes a lot about the writing process in many wryly entertaining and acutely accurate poems. In 'Poetry', he pays homage to the poet's imagination and purpose in life, which is not really a purpose when compared to those of other writers like novelists or playwrights; no, a poet's job is to just notice things, to let the imagination work, 'to be busy doing nothing'.

Linda Pastan, a poet I've recently discovered, writes plaintively and truthfully about the poetry writing process. I love her poem 'There are Poems' about the poems that never get written, that are lost to the blue sky of the mind. How visually correct! And the trailing-off structure of the poem fits perfectly with what it is saying. Her encouraging words in 'Rereading Frost' are a welcome nourishment to any aspiring poet who thinks what they have to say has already been said and in better ways: 

"At other times though
I remember how one flower
in a meadow already full of flowers
somehow adds to the general fireworks effect..."

Anne Stevenson's 'Making Poetry' is a poem I instantly fell in love with. She manages to put her finger, nimbly and fancifully, on what making poetry means, what it involves and how it is all-involving:

"To be in the habit of, to wear
words, sitting in the plainest light,
in the silk of morning, in the shoe of night;
a feeling bare and frondish is surprising air;
familiar…rare..."

And for anyone in doubt as to the difference between poetry and prose, Howard Nemerov deftly demonstrates it in his short poem of the same name, insinuating that words 'fly' in poetry as opposed to how they 'fall' in prose. Exactly.

All of these poems are below for you to enjoy. Are there any others you can think of? 

Happy poetry musing, 


~ Siobhán  
 


Poetry - Billy Collins

Call it a field where the animals
who were forgotten by the Ark
come to graze under the evening clouds.


Or a cistern where the rain that fell
before history trickles over a concrete lip.


However you see it,
this is no place to set up
the three-legged easel of realism


or make a reader climb
over the many fences of a plot.


Let the portly novelist
with his noisy typewriter
describe the city where Francine was born,


how Albert read the paper on the train,
how curtains were blowing in the bedroom.


Let the playwright with her torn cardigan
and a dog curled on the rug
move the characters


from the wings to the stage
to face the many-eyed darkness of the house.


Poetry is no place for that.
We have enough to do
complaining about the price of tobacco,


Passing the dripping ladle,
and singing songs to a bird in a cage.


We are busy doing nothing –
and all we need for that is an afternoon,
a rowboat under a blue sky,


and maybe a man fishing from a stone bridge,
or, better still, nobody on that bridge at all.


***


Making Poetry - Anne Stevenson

‘You have to inhabit poetry
if you want to make it.’
 
And what’s to ‘inhabit'?
 
To be in the habit of, to wear
words, sitting in the plainest light,
in the silk of morning, in the shoe of night;
a feeling bare and frondish is surprising air;
familiar…rare. 

And whats ‘to make’ ?
 
To be and to become words’ passing
weather; to serve a girl on terrible
terms, embark on voyages over voices,
evade the ego-hill, the misery-well,
the siren-hiss of  success, publish,
success, success, success.
 
And why inhabit, make, inherit poetry ?
 
Oh , it’s the shared comedy of the worst
blessed; the sound leading the hand;
a worldlife running from mind to mind
through the washed rooms of the simple senses;
one of those haunted, undefendable, unpoetic
crosses we have to find. 

***

There are Poems - Linda Pastan

There are poems
that are never written,
that simply move across
the mind
like skywriting
on a still day:
slowly the first word
drifts west,
the last letters dissolve
on the tongue,
and what is left
is the pure blue
of insight, without cloud
or comfort.

***

Rereading Frost - Linda Pastan

Sometimes I think all the best poems
have been written already,
and no one has time to read them,
so why try to write more?

At other times though,
I remember how one flower
in a meadow already full of flowers
somehow adds to the general fireworks effect

as you get to the top of a hill
in Colorado, say, in high summer
and just look down at all that brimming color.
I also try to convince myself

that the smallest note of the smallest
instrument in the band,
the triangle for instance,
is important to the conductor

who stands there, pointing his finger
in the direction of the percussions,
demanding that one silvery ping.
And I decide not to stop trying,

at least not for a while, though in truth
I’d rather just sit here reading
how someone else has been acquainted
with the night already, and perfectly.

***

Because You Asked About The Line Between Poetry and Prose - 
Howard Nemerov

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow. 


There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.