Showing posts with label poetry criticism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry criticism. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Am I Better Than My Work?





Often my writing sucks. Big time, and I remind myself often as I am drafting a manuscript with little side bars, for example, as I write this post, I may insert (THIS SENTENCE STINKS UP THE ROOM. ) but I am not criticizing myself, just the horrible combination of words that passes for a sentence.

Elizabeth recently posted a comment on Facebook criticizing a group of her poems, and several people remarked she should stop being so hard on herself.
“I was NOT insulting myself” she said, “I was critiquing the poems. I didn't say I'm a terrible poet, I meant, these poems poems need revision.”
“One must be hard on the work in order to improve,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“You’re a good enough poet to be cognizant of when your work is weak.”
“I’m not going to apologize for myself deprecating humor,” she said. “It’s who I am. I have an excellent self esteem.
Elizabeth needled me about a posting I had shared on ‘15 things you need to do to be happy.’ “I hate when people try to tell me how to improve myself,” she said. “I like my bad attitude and imperfect life.”
I laughed, and nodded. “Our writing comes from unhappiness and suffering. We kind of enjoy our pain. Pain is a catalyst for work.
She agreed. “Just because I criticize my own work does not make mean I’m unhappy. I can write really wonderful depressing poems when I am extremely happy. Being happy is overrated. I’d rather be fulfilled”
“I once had a drawing instructor tell me when you’re content with your work, you’re dead.”

Today I saw a badge on a FB writing site that said “Write What You Like”. Depending on the interpretation, writing ‘what I like’ in the context of being free to write anything, I agree. But writing only what I ‘like’ stunts me as a writer. Real writing comes from what bothers us, what we don't understand, and what scares the bejesus out of us. If we only write about what we like, we won’t grow as writers. We won’t explore the messy layers of the human experience and its gritty ugliness. We should not avert our eyes because something is unpleasant.

When I was in my MFA program, my first mentor asked me, what bugs you? I replied, “I didn't get the whole tattoo-piercing thing.” She said, “That’s what you need to write about.” All semester I entered the foreign country of tattoo parlors, marked bodies. I even attended a three day tattoo festival where I was the only unmarked person. I spent my time asking participants about what motivated their tattoos. One heavy young man said, “I don’t fit the standard of beauty, so I find beauty in my body by making it a canvas.”

Unlike journalist Dennis Covington, who chronicles his slow seduction into the snake handling culture in Salvation on Sand Mountain, I was not propelled to cover my skin with tattoos and piercings, but I gained insight into why others do it.


Good writing comes from what we feel passionately about, either positively or negatively. What bothers you? What scares you? You might not like it, and you may not like writing about it, but your writing will improve.

Happy Writing.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

If Only Words Were Planets

Last night my friend Elizabeth and I drove to Kent State to see/hear W.S. Merwin read. The trip was more than two hours way, and well worth the time. Merwin is 83 years old, yet he spoke and read non stop for 90 minutes. I am almost half his age, but I'm not sure I can talk that long. Perhaps he was energized by the hundreds of poetry lovers in the audience.

I'm trying to revise an old, possibly failed, novel and I can't get past the first page. If I'm bored, imagine how legions of strangers would react after shelling out money for the privildge of being tortured by my words. You, blog reader, at least get this drivel for free.

Elizabeth suggested I start where the main character conceives his "idea." Maybe. The problem is, the character posess few "rooting qualities, meaning the reader won't root for him to succeed. One friend described him as creepy. So maybe this sheaf of 200 plus pages is better off in the recycle bin, and I can free up space on my hard drive when I hit the delete key.

Writing is one bad decision after another. In revision either we make it worse, or the words find their own orbit.



Happy Writing.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Communing with other poets

I am taking the most delightful poetry workshop with my friend Elizabeth. Diane Frank, http://www.dianefrank.net/ The group comprises eight of us from all over the country, and we meet online to gather our weekly seed, share our drafts and comments with one another, and get feedback from Diane.

Worskshopping withpeers is important; other poets and writers provide a mirror for you to really see your work, often finding things you didn't realize were there. Others will bring lapses of diction, typos, and verb confusion to your attention. The biggest aid to me is when others point out where they are confused. Never Confuse Your Reader.

One does not grow without being willing to put your work out there and taking ctiticism. You may choose to agree or disagree. Good criticism is NOT a personal reflection; it is a means to make your work better. Some writers are tempted to totally rewrite your work, others offer suggestions and praise. Ultimately, it is up to you, the writer, to decide how to "solve" the writing.

If you are afraid to take a workshop, I highly suggest working with Diane. She does an online, 8 week class in the fall and one in the spring. (her summer workshop takes place in San Francsico for 4 days.) Each week she provides seeds which enable poets to stretch their writing muscles. She also gives gentle, yet accurate criticism on lines and word choices. She demonstrates where one should push the images.
Here is last week's poem: (Several particpants suggested major changes, but Diane liked it as is. I think I will sit on it for awhile and decide.)

Itinerary

In the airport gift shop the words death
and plane crash leap from newspaper headlines.
The opening lines of a novel I pick up announce,
“You are going to die.”

My travel companion recounts last night’s dream.
“You and I attended a poetry reading at a graveyard.
The poets perched their bodies on headstones.”

As a kid I pondered how the world could exist without me,
The infinite universe, my own private amusement park
I controlled by opening and closing my eyes.

Life is an airport hotel.
You fly to a new destination;
Someone else moves into your room.

Laura Moe ©2011




Happy Writing.