Urban redesign

Book_of_life

My writing practice these days is like Detroit. A lot of formerly vibrant space being abandoned, no longer receiving essential services. There has been talk for years of withdrawing to a city center, concentrating energy where it can still do some good. I don’t know how this is going to work out for Detroit.

But here’s my stripped down plan.

Start by making the best poem you can make.

Be merciless, be innovative.

Then, send it everywhere.

Then, put it in your manuscript.

When you have enough poems, arrange the manuscript.

Then, send it everywhere.

Ignore fads. Ignore trends.

Write only the best poems you can write. Write them every day. Never stop. Never pause long enough to question what you’re doing.

Never let rejection be anything more than a blip in this process.

Try everything.

After absence

I’m back. Where the hell have I been? In limbo. The let-down after finishing one stage of a large project left me non-functional. Kaput. Tapped out. Confidence-less. (And tangentially, TV-addicted.) It’s been awful trying to start up again. And no kidding, this is what separates the real writers from the wannabes: how fast you pick yourself back up. Right now I’m definitely on the “not-a-real-writer” side of that line.

It’s a big deal, how fast you recover from a knock-down, whether it’s from outside you or of your own making. How do you do it?

What’s been helping me in little ways: reading just a couple of poems; giving myself permission to write these uninspired posts. Being outside, where life has more of a chance to surprise you. Practicing the trance of wildlife watching. There are small rewards for patience, like the white undersides of a bird’s wings, in a flash before she retreats into a tree.

Science Messes With Your Head

What_do_you_mean...we've_known_about_this_2D-3D_thing_for_years!
What do you mean? We’ve known about this 2D/3D thing for years!

If you’ve ever wondered why the math of string theory points towards the possibility of a multiverse, or if you are, say, a humanities-degree-holding frustrated science freak, NOVA’s The Fabric of the Cosmos is available online.

Sample mind-blowing theory from “What Is Space?”: you, me, and everything you know might be a three-dimensional hologram of information stored in two-dimensional form on the outer edge of the universe.

Physics! Down the rabbit hole!

“After you learn quantum mechanics, you’re never really the same again.” – Steven Weinberg

Trapped

from xkcd.com

What’s in a Title

This_is_totally_my_manuscript_title

This month it was finally time to come up with a title for my manuscript-in-progress. And let me tell you, it was a fun-filled process of head-banging, hand-wringing and silent weeping. No, I’m just kidding, it wasn’t that bad. But it did keep me occupied when I was driving, washing dishes or trying to fall asleep.

A poem’s title functions as an introduction, and first impressions matter. You want the title to be as compelling as the poem is. Even more than that, you want the title to add an extra layer to the poem. The right title expands the impact of the poem with a kind of feedback-alchemy, as the reader finishes the poem, looks back up at the title, and maybe discovers it means something different now.

Maybe because a title is so small a unit, you can get away with even less laziness. As with every other element of the poem, you have to throw away the first four obvious choices, and then you have to throw away the next four clever choices, and only then do you start getting somewhere.

Some title techniques I’ve used and abused below.

“Untitled”

I used this on a fair number of poems when I was a teenager. Maybe this is why I’m unwilling to ever use it again, unless it actually has something to do with the subject of the poem. There’s just something painfully self-conscious about it.

Long statements or sentences used as titles

I love this kind of title, so naturally I’m no good at writing them. I especially love it if it seems like a completely different topic from the poem proper, and extra points if it’s funny.

Using the first line of the poem as the title

A respectable solution to the problem. But like any other technique, it can be a crutch. I’ve tended to overuse it, so now I back off when I’m tempted by this technique.

No title at all

You know, lots of terrific writers do this. Personally, I feel like I owe it to the poem to try to figure out its title.

“Sonnet,” “Villanelle,” “Poem,” “Song,” etc.

Everybody’s writing ghazals and pantoums these days. If you are in a writing workshop or MFA program, you have more than likely tried your hand at one or the other (or both!). I’ve read some brilliant examples, but dare I say, not all of these exercises should end up published? Yep, I just said it. The thing that makes it even worse for me is when the title of the ghazal is “Ghazal”. Sigh. It’s not necessary to point out the technique you used to write the poem because we all recognize it by now. Even if we didn’t, the intelligent reader will still perceive that there’s a poetic form involved. If you believe in the poem, give it a fabulous title to go with its fabulous self.

On the other hand, the idea of titling something “Sonnet” when it clearly isn’t is intriguing. It really all goes back to: does the title add something?

To come up with a title for my manuscript, I read through every poem and pulled out words or phrases that I liked, and then I combined two of them that spoke to the themes of the whole. But I should mention, before I get too smug, that I don’t know whether my current title will stick. I’d be interested in hearing what other people’s go-to title techniques are.

Organize Schmorganize

the_folders_of_incipient_genius
The folders of incipient genius

How do you physically organize your writing? Especially if you’re a poet, after a couple of years you end up with a lot of individual pieces of writing in ever-evolving states of completion.

I used to be a binder aficionado. I preferred black three-rings with clear plastic slots on the spine that I labelled “In Progress,” “Completed Work” or “Writing – Other.” And special write-on divider tabs that came in sets of 20 or more. Did I mention that as a child I used to keep all my used airline tickets in a plastic pouch to play “secretary”? So yes, my office supplies disorder (OSD) goes back a ways. But after about ten years of the binder method I realized that it was getting more and more cumbersome to put drafts away, I was letting the piles build up, and I was constantly losing good pieces of writing. Plus, who wants to spend hours hole-punching papers? Shorter: It’s not a good system if it can’t overcome my natural laziness.

So I took a page out of my friend Deb’s book, and switched to folders. Nothing cute, fancy, expensive, or hard to duplicate; just cheapo, manila, straight-cut folders. (1/3 and 1/5 cuts make me INSANE WITH HATE, but that’s another topic.) And as long as I keep them roughly alphabetized, it works as well as anything can in a small space. Want to group all the poems that need work, or all the poems that will go into a single manuscript? The folder method lends itself to the task.

The switch-over process was not pretty, but it was worth it. I’m still hanging onto my 5×8 card box to keep track of submissions though.

So how do you organize your drafts?

a) Folders.

b) Binders.

c) Fancy-pants options like this thing. (I can vouch for that thing. It is awesome. But I don’t use it for writing, because again, I’m lazy. Too much hole-punching.)

d) A giant misshapen pile on my desk.

e) All my drafts are electronic, you tree-killer.

f) It’s all in The Cloud, baby.

g) Organize? Organizing is for DILETTANTES. I compose my works of startling genius in a WHITE-HOT FRENZY. They are written in THE BLOOD OF MY VERY SOUL. Afterwards I fall to the ground in a STATE OF EXHAUSTION. Then representatives from Poetry, APR, and possibly AGNI, humbled and awed before my inhuman level of productivity, knock softly on my door and BEG ME FOR THE FRUIT OF MY BRAIN-TREE.

the_5x8_cards_of_incipient_rejection
The 5×8 cards of incipient rejection

On difficulty

It's been a difficult month. It's not so much that I need to get back on the horse that threw me, as that I need to get back on the horse that I've beaten to death.

If you are not discouraged about your writing on a regular basis, you may not be trying hard enough. Any challenging pursuit will encounter frequent patches of frustration. Writing is nothing if not challenging.

– Maxwell Perkins

On negative capability in both the writer and the reader:

the writing of poems is wrestling with a question that is irresolvable and the poem is finished when you reach a stasis … Reading a poem is an act of faith and that involves abandoning oneself to something irresolvable.

– Carl Phillips

And this is the one I like best, because it makes me feel slightly less insane:

A creative writer is one for whom writing is a problem.

– Roland Barthes

 

A manifesto of sorts

blah_blah_blah

If you are writing regularly, you are a writer. If you are not writing regularly, you are another kind of creature altogether. You are a stalled-writer or a blocked-writer or an in-pain-writer.

I’m not saying this to be mean; I have a lot of sympathy for the pain of blocked creatives. I’m frequently one of them. I’m saying this because if you are a writer, then the world needs you to write.

“Are you kidding me?” you say. We have nearly 10% unemployment, large populations of women who don’t have reliable access to birth control, and a progressively more broken political system. We have 40% of our streams and rivers polluted, a chemical industry running almost completely unregulated, and suburban sprawl stealing our wild places. And Facebook is making all of us more narcissistic, while advertisting is helping us become both mindlessly greedy and cynical. So how exactly is my writing going to help any of this?

Because writing, and any art-making, is the inverse of: war-mongering, consumerism, dissatisfaction and cynicism.

Art-making helps you recover your enthusiasm and sincere delight. Now that you are open to your own fragile hopes, you will become more empathetic to other people and to creatures. Every time you create something for your own satisfaction, you give the virtual middle-finger to all the institutions that make it their business to breed dissatisfaction. Every time you create something that has never been seen before, you put the lie to the  idea that we can’t figure out new ways to live in our world. Now that your personal flame is burning more resiliently, you will be more likely to challenge people speaking out of the negativity they’ve been frightened into, or the privilege they’ve taken for granted.

Art-creating is practice for creating our lives and our culture as we want them to be, not just as they’re suggested by the corporations we work for and buy from. Art-making makes you think for yourself. It makes you more tolerant of individual people but less tolerant of the oppressive institutions that people may participate in.

Your piece of art, your painting or poem or screenplay, does not magically make the world better. Honestly, in a lot of ways, it’s just an artifact. But the fact that you made it makes you better because now you feel your own power to create.You are no longer mindless. You can no longer see yourself as helpless. You no longer accept the culture’s simplistic version of yourself, and you will likewise not accept the simplistic versions of other people that are constantly shoved down your throat.

And that’s why, if you are a writer, you need to write. Also, it will make you feel better. Now go out there and write something.

Linky Linky

Jeffrey Levine of Tupelo Press has good advice on organizing your poetry manuscript. Then again, does he?

Humorist Calvin Trillin talks to Jon Stewart about the challenges of writing satirical poetry. You may be surprised by what "Mitt Romney" rhymes with.

Enjoy a good literary feud? Here's Dana Goodyear's article in The New Yorker on the enormous inheritance left to Poetry magazine. And David Orr's rebuttal in The New York Times which includes among other things some comments on The New Yorker's poetry track record. And John Casteen's rebuttal of the rebuttal in Virginia Quarterly Review.

Photos for poets

julia_blaukopf_batik

Visual art inspires me to write, in some ways more reliably than other writer’s poetry. I tend to get stuck in imitations of other writers’ styles, which is like producing a piece of amber with a mashed leaf inside, instead of growing a live plant. Inspiration from visual art is more visceral. You get to come at the impression sideways.

Which brings me to my friend Julia Blaukopf’s book The Rain Parade, a photographic journal of her four months in Ghana.

At times, photography feels sterile to me, and I think it’s because our visual culture is so overloaded with perfect photos: images that are either a) intentionally stripped of emotion or b) overloaded with manipulation to get you to buy something. What I love about Julia’s photographs is that they’re full of feeling but they never force you. They’re not what you’d call pictures of Ghana; they’re more impressions of Ghana. There’s a gentleness and immediacy in them, almost a child’s-eye view of the dusty streets, fishermen working their nets on a beach, a woman making batik fabric. They’re saturated but calm, which come to think of it, is kind of like Julia.

julia_blaukopf_fisherman