While many of my poems are inspired by events, places or people I know or have known, it's also true that for the most part the poems are 90% fictional. I advocate that this is the most liberating way to write poetry because it allows for craft to come before potentially non-furthering or boring "true details." Being corseted by some "but it really happened that way" line, image or clunker plot is not in a poem's best interests.
As an editor, I find this particularly obvious in even otherwise wonderful poems that come into TCE's submissions' queue. This is proved out when I sometimes query poets about the possibility of revising a superfluous or awkward line and the response is: "but it really happened that way."
Poets and writers of fiction have to be willing to ask themselves if their reporting of facts is worth the dulling or deadening which can happen when they possessively hang onto some of their phrasing just because "it's real." If the only compelling reason for including certain words or lines in a poem is "it really happened," then throw them out! Poems should pass these craft tests: Evoke place, image, lyricism, concept, and/or surprise; every word serves purpose and furthers content. Poems may be narrative, but they are not really meant to be short stories. And they are definitely not news articles.
Another aspect of this fact/fiction scenario has to do both with point-of-view characters and intended audiences; to whom is the poet writing? This subject is on my mind rather a lot because I've found that if I don't know who I'm writing to/for, what I'm attempting to say becomes pale. It fades, it wavers. It lies limp. This is where the less fictional has often come into play for me; I've typically needed an intimate (and often singular) audience to write to for each poem. When there is no one I feel like addressing in such a way at a particular time in my life, I am less motivated to write. Some might be tempted to call this lethargy a symptom of writer's block. In reality, my writer's block is a symptom of failing to target a new audience of at least one. When I remind myself of this, I can then reach into the bag of relationships and acquaintances (or even fictional characters) and draw one out to "speak" to about my influx of ideas. The result of doing so often paints a fresh complexion onto a paler draft, effectively and further fictionalizing its make-up.
Another benefit of choosing to write poems with someone else in mind as audience, is that poets will find they are less egocentric in the process. Writing to someone else requires shifts of outward contemplation about that audience's perception. It considers his tastes. Her frames of reference. Imagining that other — those others, if you’re writing to a broader audience — and his way of processing what you are sending his way, helps also to free up the notion that you must write "what happened." Write what happens when you are free to say what you wish to your chosen audience.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Monday, November 02, 2009
Lesson in Poetic Antics
There's a big reason I don't blog often. It's called The Centrifugal Eye. Creating it takes almost all my waking time. Sometimes dreaming time. You might think that makes me unsocial, but I spend several hours everyday communicating with writers and other editors. That's a lot more sociable than many writers get to be. The average poet writes in isolation. Not all belong to writers' groups. Many don't travel. Quite a few do not have reading venues to bounce off audiences. Still, poets reach out to others through their writing.
I've actually had a blog idea scribbled out in half-illegible notes sitting on my desk for more than a month, but couldn't make time to realize it for internet consumption. But because I had to log in here to comment on someone else's blog to note a publication credit, I reasoned that this is the moment . . .
Let's see, how to make sense from month-old scratchings? It seems to begin with the reflection that a poet is like a clown. How's that? No, I'm not suggesting you connect the images of Bozo with the slapstick humor of a limericist (limerickerist?!). See, years ago, I moonlighted as a facepainting clown. The first thing I had to do when I picked up this gig with the entertainment company was to create an identity. Make my own costume. Design my own make-up. I even created an unique voice for my clownish alter ego. See where I'm going yet?
Clowns need to make instant impressions in order to be effective. They have signature looks. It might be a wacky purple hairdo, a wide green smile, a flamboyantly-striped costume, or ridiculous props, such as a giant crayon or inflatable, orange, dinosaur flotation belt. Whatever the signature, it's recognizable in a crowd of . . . well, not just clowns, but anywhere.
So how is a poet like a clown?, you ask, still disbelieving of this attempt at analogy.
Let's start with the mask. Clowns are people behind masks and face make-up. That seems like a no-brainer statement, but what you learn pretty quickly as a clown is that children (and adults, too, surprise!) have a hard time comprehending there's a regular person behind the resplendent persona. Although sometimes frightening for the observer, this confusion has its benefits, for both clowns and poets.
When I first donned full clown make-up and costume, I felt slightly shy about making a fool of myself. But when I shored up my courage and made a wisecrack at my first victims, I mean, unwitting audience, I felt liberated. One man stepped up close to me afterwards and tried to peer behind my visage. That's when I realized he could see only who I wanted him to see.
Writers often take advantage of this, too, in their own way — there's a built-in layer of physical silence between them and their writing, which in turn is a costume of sorts, created to present an identity, a voice.
A working clown very often has a "bag of tricks." This bag, or deep pocket, or briefcase might be stuffed with magic-trick paraphernalia, stretchy balloons, whizzers, gag props, paint supplies and toy prizes. A working poet has a "bag of tricks," too, but rather than gimmicks, it's filled with crafting tools: reference books, poetic forms, verse techniques, mentors and "vocal" methods.
I mentioned I created a special voice for my clown persona. I did, and it was a high-pitched, helium-style kid's voice, and I practiced so much I could keep in character for hours at a time. Both children and adults marveled over the voice, and always asked if it was my real voice. And in true clown fashion, I almost always answered, "Yes." After their guffaws, I would qualify: "It's my real clown voice." Other times, I would whip my favorite handcrafted prop from my green paisley "suitcase o' tricks" and answer, "well, I'll let you in on a secret — I use Clown Voice Spray." With great flourish I would squirt this spray into my wide open, orange-lipped mouth, smack those lips and utter a few squeaky mi-mi-mi-meeeees. All eyes would grow wide, and gales of laughter would roll into the air. And then some willing-to-believe kid would ask to try it. So I would squirt a little in her mouth . . . and well, no, it seldom worked for these kids, because, well, they weren't clowns, see? But every once in awhile, a kid would get it, and belt out an equally impressive and squeaky mi-mi-mi . . .
Are you getting, yet, how all this relates to poets? Maybe it's like the Clown Voice Spray. Maybe you have to already have a poet's voice to sound like a poet. Want to get your own?
First, start by assembling a learned bag of tricks. Keep practicing. Create an identity. Develop signatures. Be bold — even though you think people can see you when you write, they really only see either what you present to them, or what they want to see.
I've actually had a blog idea scribbled out in half-illegible notes sitting on my desk for more than a month, but couldn't make time to realize it for internet consumption. But because I had to log in here to comment on someone else's blog to note a publication credit, I reasoned that this is the moment . . .
Let's see, how to make sense from month-old scratchings? It seems to begin with the reflection that a poet is like a clown. How's that? No, I'm not suggesting you connect the images of Bozo with the slapstick humor of a limericist (limerickerist?!). See, years ago, I moonlighted as a facepainting clown. The first thing I had to do when I picked up this gig with the entertainment company was to create an identity. Make my own costume. Design my own make-up. I even created an unique voice for my clownish alter ego. See where I'm going yet?
Clowns need to make instant impressions in order to be effective. They have signature looks. It might be a wacky purple hairdo, a wide green smile, a flamboyantly-striped costume, or ridiculous props, such as a giant crayon or inflatable, orange, dinosaur flotation belt. Whatever the signature, it's recognizable in a crowd of . . . well, not just clowns, but anywhere.
So how is a poet like a clown?, you ask, still disbelieving of this attempt at analogy.
Let's start with the mask. Clowns are people behind masks and face make-up. That seems like a no-brainer statement, but what you learn pretty quickly as a clown is that children (and adults, too, surprise!) have a hard time comprehending there's a regular person behind the resplendent persona. Although sometimes frightening for the observer, this confusion has its benefits, for both clowns and poets.
When I first donned full clown make-up and costume, I felt slightly shy about making a fool of myself. But when I shored up my courage and made a wisecrack at my first victims, I mean, unwitting audience, I felt liberated. One man stepped up close to me afterwards and tried to peer behind my visage. That's when I realized he could see only who I wanted him to see.
Writers often take advantage of this, too, in their own way — there's a built-in layer of physical silence between them and their writing, which in turn is a costume of sorts, created to present an identity, a voice.
A working clown very often has a "bag of tricks." This bag, or deep pocket, or briefcase might be stuffed with magic-trick paraphernalia, stretchy balloons, whizzers, gag props, paint supplies and toy prizes. A working poet has a "bag of tricks," too, but rather than gimmicks, it's filled with crafting tools: reference books, poetic forms, verse techniques, mentors and "vocal" methods.
I mentioned I created a special voice for my clown persona. I did, and it was a high-pitched, helium-style kid's voice, and I practiced so much I could keep in character for hours at a time. Both children and adults marveled over the voice, and always asked if it was my real voice. And in true clown fashion, I almost always answered, "Yes." After their guffaws, I would qualify: "It's my real clown voice." Other times, I would whip my favorite handcrafted prop from my green paisley "suitcase o' tricks" and answer, "well, I'll let you in on a secret — I use Clown Voice Spray." With great flourish I would squirt this spray into my wide open, orange-lipped mouth, smack those lips and utter a few squeaky mi-mi-mi-meeeees. All eyes would grow wide, and gales of laughter would roll into the air. And then some willing-to-believe kid would ask to try it. So I would squirt a little in her mouth . . . and well, no, it seldom worked for these kids, because, well, they weren't clowns, see? But every once in awhile, a kid would get it, and belt out an equally impressive and squeaky mi-mi-mi . . .
Are you getting, yet, how all this relates to poets? Maybe it's like the Clown Voice Spray. Maybe you have to already have a poet's voice to sound like a poet. Want to get your own?
First, start by assembling a learned bag of tricks. Keep practicing. Create an identity. Develop signatures. Be bold — even though you think people can see you when you write, they really only see either what you present to them, or what they want to see.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Am I Really a Twit-Candidate?
Last weekend I wrote on my personal, semi-anonymous blog that I wouldn’t post on Twitter. Now, I’m almost convinced to reconsider. Thanks to a short article in a British Columbia regional newspaper, The Northern View. The author, Bruce Wishart, credited San Francisco Chronicle staff writer, Spud Hilton, with inspiring him to advise local business owners to use Twitter for promoting tourism. Two keys quoted in Wishart’s article, mainly attributed to Hilton, make especially great sense to me as an editor:
1. Don’t Use Twitter for Social Purposes.
2. Think of the Tweets as News Headlines.
These particular concepts give me all kinds of cause for interest. As I said in my other blog, I just don’t have the time to keep up with another social venue. But I could make time to promote my career interests, using sharp, succinct “headlines” that enlighten, entertain or inform. Free advertising is a rare commodity. Aren’t those of us in business always hoping for complimentary promotion where we can get it?
And how about the headline concept? What do writing coaches teach concerning the opening scene in a story or initial paragraph in an article? Grab the reader’s attention. That’s what news journalists try to do, too: 1. Catchy headline; 2. Who, what, where, when & how in the first paragraph. If there can be only 140 characters in a tweet, why waste them in babble? Why not let Twitter be your public relations, “sound-bite” manager?
Will I give in to Twitter? I don’t know yet. If I get a handle on what I think would do me the most good, I just might. Maybe I need one more convincing perspective to unseat me from the position of “too busy.”
1. Don’t Use Twitter for Social Purposes.
2. Think of the Tweets as News Headlines.
These particular concepts give me all kinds of cause for interest. As I said in my other blog, I just don’t have the time to keep up with another social venue. But I could make time to promote my career interests, using sharp, succinct “headlines” that enlighten, entertain or inform. Free advertising is a rare commodity. Aren’t those of us in business always hoping for complimentary promotion where we can get it?
And how about the headline concept? What do writing coaches teach concerning the opening scene in a story or initial paragraph in an article? Grab the reader’s attention. That’s what news journalists try to do, too: 1. Catchy headline; 2. Who, what, where, when & how in the first paragraph. If there can be only 140 characters in a tweet, why waste them in babble? Why not let Twitter be your public relations, “sound-bite” manager?
Will I give in to Twitter? I don’t know yet. If I get a handle on what I think would do me the most good, I just might. Maybe I need one more convincing perspective to unseat me from the position of “too busy.”
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Writers on Writers
I’ve just read in a Publishers Weekly email that Alexander McCall Smith, author of No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, will be putting out a new book on poet W. H. (Wystan Hugh) Auden for Princeton University Press’ Writers on Writers series. Looks like Smith’s will be the 2nd title in the series, as I found only one other book listed for Writers on Writers in PUP’s catalog: Phillip Lopate’s Notes on Sontag (which looks quite interesting, by the way).
Not sure why, but one of my first reactions (besides, ooh, what will it be like to read about Auden from the perspective of Ma Ramotswe’s creator?) was to think, I want to write a book for that series. Let’s skip over the real possibility that Princeton wouldn’t be interested in my authoring such a book, since only a small part of the literary world knows I even exist as a writer — I mean, I’m no McCall Smith, with worldwide readership and a crateload of top-selling titles to attract buyer attention. No, let’s say that fame didn’t matter, that my spunky attitude and ability to merge metaphor with poetic irony was the key to getting Princeton to agree to a proposal for the series. So who would I write about?
I had to think about that for a little while. Here’s a list of poets/authors who have had the greatest impact on me as a writer and poet, and that I would find interesting to write about:
Floyd Skloot
Connie Willis
Tom Reninger
Pablo Neruda
Glendon Swarthout
Octavia Butler
William Golding
3 poets, 4 novelists. Of course there are others who I think are marvelous writers. And if I had the gumption to write about all the authors who’ve shaped my own writing in some fashion, I could create my own library of biography. But how to narrow this list down to the one pitch that Princeton would go for, and that I would relish writing?
The big-name attractions would be Neruda, Golding, and then Butler and Willis. They would draw their own audiences. Yet I have personal connections to lesser-known poets, Reninger and Skloot, that would help me delve into a more rounded and inter-connected portrait, if I went with either of them.
My choice, then? Floyd Skloot. Skloot’s poetry and prose is accessible in the way that Billy Collins’ poems are, and therefore they can speak to a wider general audience than do Reninger’s symbol-laden poems. Skloot’s voice is genuine, his diction lyrical. And somehow, he’s unlocked in my own poetry the ability to say what I mean, using a fluid style.
That’s all I’m giving you now — I mean, hey, the rest might show up in a book from PUP’s Series catalog. But I’d like to ask you, if you wanted to pitch a proposal for this series, Who’s the one writer you’d write on?
Not sure why, but one of my first reactions (besides, ooh, what will it be like to read about Auden from the perspective of Ma Ramotswe’s creator?) was to think, I want to write a book for that series. Let’s skip over the real possibility that Princeton wouldn’t be interested in my authoring such a book, since only a small part of the literary world knows I even exist as a writer — I mean, I’m no McCall Smith, with worldwide readership and a crateload of top-selling titles to attract buyer attention. No, let’s say that fame didn’t matter, that my spunky attitude and ability to merge metaphor with poetic irony was the key to getting Princeton to agree to a proposal for the series. So who would I write about?
I had to think about that for a little while. Here’s a list of poets/authors who have had the greatest impact on me as a writer and poet, and that I would find interesting to write about:
Floyd Skloot
Connie Willis
Tom Reninger
Pablo Neruda
Glendon Swarthout
Octavia Butler
William Golding
3 poets, 4 novelists. Of course there are others who I think are marvelous writers. And if I had the gumption to write about all the authors who’ve shaped my own writing in some fashion, I could create my own library of biography. But how to narrow this list down to the one pitch that Princeton would go for, and that I would relish writing?
The big-name attractions would be Neruda, Golding, and then Butler and Willis. They would draw their own audiences. Yet I have personal connections to lesser-known poets, Reninger and Skloot, that would help me delve into a more rounded and inter-connected portrait, if I went with either of them.
My choice, then? Floyd Skloot. Skloot’s poetry and prose is accessible in the way that Billy Collins’ poems are, and therefore they can speak to a wider general audience than do Reninger’s symbol-laden poems. Skloot’s voice is genuine, his diction lyrical. And somehow, he’s unlocked in my own poetry the ability to say what I mean, using a fluid style.
That’s all I’m giving you now — I mean, hey, the rest might show up in a book from PUP’s Series catalog. But I’d like to ask you, if you wanted to pitch a proposal for this series, Who’s the one writer you’d write on?
Friday, June 26, 2009
Don't Ad to the Verb
First it was “fast forward,” and now it’s “rewind.”
I’ve had a chance to pick up and read a 12-year-old copy of a Realms of Fantasy issue recently. There are 5 more issues from the same year waiting for me to go through, but honestly, I’m afraid to crack them open. RoF, recently purchased by Tir Na Nog Press, was still being published up until April 2009 (and due out again this month for Aug. 09, under the new ownership), and I imagine editor Shawna McCarthy continued to evolve over the past decade when it came to selecting materials. But there was this one story published — mixed in with stories and articles by accomplished authors, such as Terri Windling, David Phelan and Tanith Lee — that looks to have snuck into the pages of RoF of its own accord. I won’t mention which issue or author I’m referring to, as it’s not my intent to embarrass him/her. I hope that author continued to write and hone craft in the meantime, and has gone on to publish much better stories since.
No, I mention this here because the story is fresh in my mind, and it illustrates the worst in crafting fiction. I still can’t understand how it got published in a high-profile magazine. Was it an accident? Interestingly, its author was not listed on the contributor’s bio page, although he/she appeared in the contents.
What was wrong with it, you ask? Almost everything. Basic 101 fiction gone melodramatic: Points-of-View hobbled, leapt and teetered back and forth between characters in the same paragraphs. Punctuation was used erratically. Nearly every sentence in these 4,000+ words used one or more ridiculous adverbs. Oh! the adverbs! Dialogue was smarmy, pelted with unbelievable emotional outbursts; character development relied only on this unconvincing dialogue. Typos abounded. It was as though the manuscript never got past the first draft, and then was never proofread.
I admit there was something compelling in the plot. Which is why I suffered, groaning, through the story for eight, long, double-column pages. I kept hoping for improvement. Praying for some fabulous plot twists to explain how the story made it past all censors and into print, despite its obviously amateurish development.
And me-oh-my, in the end all I got for my pains was a predictable surprise? ending, and an urge to write about my frustrations. Really, it was all terrible. But what was the worst, besides every don’t in the writer’s handbook done?
Back to those wretched adverbs.
Using adverbs isn’t all bad. But use them sparingly, please. Please. Adverbs are loud and they stomp all over your writing if not used judiciously. They’d better say something brilliant, or else they’re just like raucous children on the playground. They must be specific and not haphazard. Adverbs tell you what to see, rather than show you. Strong verbs illustrate.
The girl ran quickly. The girl raced. Which sentence evokes intensity?
If you’re a poet, are you wondering about how adverbs effect your poems? It’s the same. Judicious use, okay. But as poems rely upon brevity in comparison to prose, the more succinct you can express your imagery, the more clear your lines become. Adverbs tend to muddy your poems. Yes, there are always exceptions, but when looking to prune your poetry (and fiction), get rid of as many adverbs as possible. If you think you need them to describe something “just-so,” then find more vibrant verbs to take their places.
The other authors who appeared in this particular issue of RoF that has me so riled up by one story a dozen years after publication (a lesson that our chosen words can live on, sometimes to our chagrin) had little trouble choosing effective verbs. Yet still I’m reluctant to be ambushed by another shoddily-written story from that same period of RoF history. In all fairness to Shawna’s tenure as an editor, I should resolve myself to checking out a more current issue. And thank her for giving me this opportunity to warn my own contributors against the perils of over-employing the melodramatic adverb.
—EAH
I’ve had a chance to pick up and read a 12-year-old copy of a Realms of Fantasy issue recently. There are 5 more issues from the same year waiting for me to go through, but honestly, I’m afraid to crack them open. RoF, recently purchased by Tir Na Nog Press, was still being published up until April 2009 (and due out again this month for Aug. 09, under the new ownership), and I imagine editor Shawna McCarthy continued to evolve over the past decade when it came to selecting materials. But there was this one story published — mixed in with stories and articles by accomplished authors, such as Terri Windling, David Phelan and Tanith Lee — that looks to have snuck into the pages of RoF of its own accord. I won’t mention which issue or author I’m referring to, as it’s not my intent to embarrass him/her. I hope that author continued to write and hone craft in the meantime, and has gone on to publish much better stories since.
No, I mention this here because the story is fresh in my mind, and it illustrates the worst in crafting fiction. I still can’t understand how it got published in a high-profile magazine. Was it an accident? Interestingly, its author was not listed on the contributor’s bio page, although he/she appeared in the contents.
What was wrong with it, you ask? Almost everything. Basic 101 fiction gone melodramatic: Points-of-View hobbled, leapt and teetered back and forth between characters in the same paragraphs. Punctuation was used erratically. Nearly every sentence in these 4,000+ words used one or more ridiculous adverbs. Oh! the adverbs! Dialogue was smarmy, pelted with unbelievable emotional outbursts; character development relied only on this unconvincing dialogue. Typos abounded. It was as though the manuscript never got past the first draft, and then was never proofread.
I admit there was something compelling in the plot. Which is why I suffered, groaning, through the story for eight, long, double-column pages. I kept hoping for improvement. Praying for some fabulous plot twists to explain how the story made it past all censors and into print, despite its obviously amateurish development.
And me-oh-my, in the end all I got for my pains was a predictable surprise? ending, and an urge to write about my frustrations. Really, it was all terrible. But what was the worst, besides every don’t in the writer’s handbook done?
Back to those wretched adverbs.
Using adverbs isn’t all bad. But use them sparingly, please. Please. Adverbs are loud and they stomp all over your writing if not used judiciously. They’d better say something brilliant, or else they’re just like raucous children on the playground. They must be specific and not haphazard. Adverbs tell you what to see, rather than show you. Strong verbs illustrate.
The girl ran quickly. The girl raced. Which sentence evokes intensity?
If you’re a poet, are you wondering about how adverbs effect your poems? It’s the same. Judicious use, okay. But as poems rely upon brevity in comparison to prose, the more succinct you can express your imagery, the more clear your lines become. Adverbs tend to muddy your poems. Yes, there are always exceptions, but when looking to prune your poetry (and fiction), get rid of as many adverbs as possible. If you think you need them to describe something “just-so,” then find more vibrant verbs to take their places.
The other authors who appeared in this particular issue of RoF that has me so riled up by one story a dozen years after publication (a lesson that our chosen words can live on, sometimes to our chagrin) had little trouble choosing effective verbs. Yet still I’m reluctant to be ambushed by another shoddily-written story from that same period of RoF history. In all fairness to Shawna’s tenure as an editor, I should resolve myself to checking out a more current issue. And thank her for giving me this opportunity to warn my own contributors against the perils of over-employing the melodramatic adverb.
—EAH
Monday, June 15, 2009
Fast-forward Four Years
It's all Jeff Crouch's fault and his Famous Album Covers blog ... otherwise I wouldn't be back on Blogspot, where I discovered I couldn't log in with my old profile. Ha. If I get back to posting here, it will be in tandem with Live Journal and other assorted online public venues. At least I'm linked back in (via Google) and can get rid of the old and get back to date with current news.
I'm still musing about the postcard that arrived today from poet Pearl Pirie. (Thank you, Pearl, by the way -- the poem is amazing and much longer than what I'm used to receiving on a postcard.)
Her poem to me is called White Caps, and flatteringly enough, the epigraph is a quote from one of my own poems, Wild Man Hours, (The HyperTexts). What a gift! I always daydreamed about being quoted while I was a young and novice writer. And here I am, twice in 30 days, even (Interview -- Long Story, Short). I hope this is a sign of arrival.
Toodles.
Until the next random scribe-by.
I'm still musing about the postcard that arrived today from poet Pearl Pirie. (Thank you, Pearl, by the way -- the poem is amazing and much longer than what I'm used to receiving on a postcard.)
Her poem to me is called White Caps, and flatteringly enough, the epigraph is a quote from one of my own poems, Wild Man Hours, (The HyperTexts). What a gift! I always daydreamed about being quoted while I was a young and novice writer. And here I am, twice in 30 days, even (Interview -- Long Story, Short). I hope this is a sign of arrival.
Toodles.
Until the next random scribe-by.
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