The Trouble With Being A Poet

Billy Collins. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed Collins' poems until I started listening to his CD "Live". I didn't come to appreciate it until I was into about the tenth listening, while driving across the barren Wyoming plains. About then I recognized all the layers that are in some of the simple sounding poems.

I have an earlier CD of him reading his work, The Best Cigarette. He reads his poems. Period. I can picture Billy, a microphone, and an empty room. In Live something else happens. Is it the "relatively enormous audience" as he says in the introduction, or is it the chance to engage real people? Poetry is such a solitary process, like any writing. The switch from private scribbling to public presentation is an interesting one. I've had to retool my style a bit for the performance of the poem.

I can't assume that my work will always be read on the printed page. That calls for a different approach, especially if I am reading my work. There are a few words I like to use, I like the look of them on the page, the way they sound, the roll of vowels and consonants in my in my head. The problem is, I can't pronounce them. I look at them on the page, I hear them properly in my head, and then between brain and tongue, I slip. I stumble, mispronounce, or flip the word out of order. No matter how much I adore the word, there is no way I want to go to a public reading and trip all over the line containing The Word.

Cop-out? Not really. I know my tongue will betray me at certain times, with certain words, so I plan ahead. It's also forced me to quit using the same word as an easy out, a crutch, and search for more descriptive words. I've regulated the Words to placeholders, a comfortable relationship for both of us. I'm sure the Words were tired of being mangled also.

Poetry makes you obsessive about language. I love Word A Day sites, the dictionary, new poets and any other place that plays with the English language. The relationship between words and ideas is an obsession. There is a simple pleasure in stringing together vocabulary like popcorn for a Christmas tree. What do I want the reader to take from my poem? What do I want to say? What do I have to say? What is the best way of conveying these emotions through words?

Driving across the dry Wyoming landscape, visor blocking the sunset and brown grass stocking snow in a desperate attempt to survive, I find new meanings in the words Collins throws out so casually. "Here, a poem, take from it what you will". In a poem called "The Trouble With Poetry", Collins touches on what poetry can do to the poet,

"Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

"But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil."

That's what it feels like at times. When all goes well, we want to shout our lines from a car window while speeding down the street, when it's a struggle, the darkness presses close and envelops us. But there is always that thought, that just one poem, one stanza, one line, even one word will be the tipping point, flame will erupt from the end of your pencil, and all will be right with the world.

I'm Almost A Branch Library

Or: How much research material is enough?

Last count I had 5 seven foot tall bookcases filled... and most of it was non-fiction. I was cleaning and straightening yesterday (to avoid cleaning and straightening other areas of the house) and discovered books I don't even remember obtaining. At one point I must have decided I needed to study up on the Jesuits, Mysticism of the Eastern Churches, and Buddhism, but I have no idea what story I intended to write. Since religion figures in all my stories, it hasn't been a waste. I have several books on physics, astronomy, fuzzy logic, and time. As soon as I got out of school, I discovered I loved physics, and quantum mechanics - what I understand of them so far.

The Roman Empire, Byzantium, Greece, Egypt, and Persia. Mythology, both Eastern and Western. Enough art books to open my own classroom. Psychology and education, but I have an excuse for those, they were part of my abortive attempt to finish my PhD. More philosophy books than I ever needed when I was in school, but hey, teaching it, you never know what you'll need. Dungeons and Dragons, Battletech, Star Wars, Star Trek and Gurps handbooks. Knitting, weaving, sewing, felting and leatherworking. (SCA related, I swear)

Books on how to write. Books on writing techniques. Books on techniques about how to write. Style books and source books, dictionaries and how to's. Books on writing poetry. Books by poets, many of which are distressingly thin, but I guess that's so they leave you wanting more, kind of like those dinner plates at snobby restaurants, artfully arranged and skimpy.

Books with pictures. No, not Dr. Seuss, but National Geographic tomes, and a day in the life of whatever country, and William Wegman, photo books of national parks and photo books of places I wish I could go to. Cookbooks, military history, and computer programming. Anthropology, sociology and ancient architecture.

Engineering, including my manuals from the military. How can such an interesting subject be rendered dry as toast? Oh, yeah, the military, where toast has its own manual.

Fiction is scattered throughout the house, in case I am in need of a quick read while cooking or herding cats. My signed books are enshrined alongside my poetry collections, except for Kris', which is now making the rounds of the local junior high school. (Six kids have read it so far, and more want it. I'd say it's a hit, Kris) I have a Rubbermaid tub full of romance books someone gave me and lots of science fiction, fantasy, and historical fiction. Not much in the way of commercial fiction, although when younger I had a thing for James Mitchner doorstops. A few Steven King – something I share with my oldest. Fiction on Vietnam and WWII.

Even when I go to the library I check a lot of non-fiction books out. Is it fear of influence while I'm writing my own stuff? Or is something else going on here? I've decided it's larger than that. I confess, I suffer from incurable NTK. Need To Know. There's so much out there that I find interesting, there's no way I could specialize and narrow my scope. Probably why I'm not still in school collecting another degree. You know what they say:

"Every man gets a narrower and narrower field of knowledge in which he must be an expert in order to compete with other people. The specialist knows more and more about less and less and finally knows everything about nothing." -- Konrad Lorenz

I don't want to be a specialist. Specialization is for insects, and academics. So that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. What's yours?

Next time – I talk about my weird and eclectic collection of DVD's...

Mutations

If this doesn't inspire me to write Science Fiction, nothing will. Courtesy of my brother, who took up mushroom growing. Why couldn't he just stick to microbrewing? (Thanks for the pics, Carl. I'll be having nightmares for... minutes.)

Shitake Mushroom starter with snowmen. I think the plate adds just the right surreal touch, also.

Then there is this. Pearl Oyster Mushroom wannabes. If that doesn't scream SciFi Channel Movie of the Week, nothing does.

So where do you find your story inspirations? (And no, I did not find my last short story plot in a bowl of alphabet soup.)

Tagged by Scott, Who Needs A Good Thwacking

I've been Orc-cootied…errr, tagged by Scott Oden to name "5 Crazy Things About Me".

That's kinda tough. I'm not a very wild and crazy person. As a matter of fact, I'm downright boring, I think. So following Scott's lead, I went with quirky. And stupid. I can do quirky and stupid.

1. When I lived in Italy I passed on the chance to go to Egypt on my fall vacation… because it involved getting nine shots. Instead I took a train by myself up to Amsterdam to go see a painting. (Like that wasn't more dangerous?) Yeah, you heard me. A painting. Wheatfield with Crows. Hey, it was a Van Gogh. To reiterate, I skipped a side trip to Egypt to go visit the Rijksmuseum, Van Gogh Museum, and Stedelijk Museum. Then I turned around on Christmas break and hitchhiked across Sicily to see Greek temples. What did I know, I was like, 20, okay?? Get off my back.
2. In the Army Corps of Engineers, my job was blowing things up. (To be fair, we built things too, but it wasn't as much fun). I like alien killing video games, or war/covert ops games. I read military history for fun. I love Rome- the TV program, the era, the Byzantine parts, the whole Empire ambiance. I have a purple belt in karate. I'm the most non violent person I know -- or I'm schizophrenic, I haven't quite figured it all out yet, but I also have a counterculture hippie side that is into Tarot, aromatherapy candles, and Buddhism. Go figure.
3. I never was comfortable giving people orders even though I was a military officer. I still don't. I'm far too polite. (I even say please and thank you to the dogs. They seem to appreciate it.) The problem with being polite is it comes back to bite you. I'm taking mean lessons. My best friend went so far as to give me a new motto, soon to be emblazoned on a coffee cup. "No good deed goes unpunished."
4. I like toys. Still. I have a collection of action figures, model planes, helicopters and cars in my office, including a 12 inch tall Sgt. Lee Ermey (Mail Call) action figure that spouts Marine talk, and Butters from South Park complete with Underpants Gnome. I also have Happy Meal toys, and a foot tall Spongebob Squarepants doll my son won in a crane grab. A hyena that laughs from the Discovery Store. Origami desk calendars. A set of scale model CAT construction equipment painted in military camouflage. LOTR action figures arranged in a cheerleader pyramid. (Elves on bottom) A stress ball in the shape of a grenade. A D&D campaign map as a mouse pad. You get the idea.
5. Much to my teenagers dismay, I can whoop their butts at Halo and Republic Commando. Yeah, I still play games. Mostly video games, but board games, chess, and RPG's when I find willing victims. I tried playing my oldest child's favorite video game, Katamari, but rolling the world up in a ball didn't do anything for me. Neither does youngest child favorite Need for Speed, Various Incarnations, although racing willy nilly through the streets in a muscle car being chased by cops does have its appeal. And he starts driving next year? *shudders* I prefer the simple game pleasures of frag grenades, assault rifles, and kamikaze charges. Who knew?

I hereby tag KC, Carla, and Linda. You're it. Go, girls!

Curb Your Short Story

No, I'm not talking about taking the story over to the curb to do its business, although that might not be a bad idea. I was thinking of a curb bit on a horse, a bit more severe than a run of the mill snaffle bit, it basically operates on the principle of leverage. It can apply pressure on the bars, tongue, and/or roof of the mouth of an unruly horse and let him know his antics are not acceptable. Used properly, the bit raises the horse's head and neck and makes him tuck his nose. In the wrong hands, the bit can be painful, it can cause the horse to throw his head up high and stretch out his nose in an effort to relieve the pressure. The gentle pull you give on a snaffle bit can cause agony with a poorly fitted snaffle bit.

When I first moved West, I had a hard time dealing with 'peanut roller' horses. Those that carried their heads so low they seemed to be dragging them on the ground. All my English style training taught me to have the horse on the bit, head up and waiting for my signals. Instant response, instant gratification. Until I rode Western, I didn't know there was any other way.

I had the same problem with short stories. They have their own rules and regulations. I did what I was supposed to, and read the guidelines, then read collections of short stories in an effort to distill the formula. Many abortive attempts later, I discovered what other people were quicker to figure out. There is no formula. Many of the examples of good short stories broke all the 'rules' set out by the leading magazines and college professors.

I should have known. I'm not big on the rules part of anything, why did I think following the rules regarding short story writing would help? Like anything, it's good to know the basics before you set out to tinker with the system. I wrote several by the book short stories. They were mechanically sound, but bored the hell out of me. I suffered from the Begin At The Beginning syndrome. Now that I'm a wild west rule breaker, I know enough to start there, but edit later and pare the story to the basics. Tell the tale until it's done, then go back in with a curb bit and make that story spin on its haunches if need be. Make it arch its neck and tuck its nose. Too heavy a hand and the poor story is tossing its head in agitation. Don't make it behave and you have an incomprehensible mess on your hands.

Used properly, the curb bit of rules can guide your short story to the finish line. Short stories are the dressage of the writing world. "Look what I can do", they say as they perform their gymnastics. Of course I must confess I was never that good at dressage. I liked show jumping with its all or nothing aspect. One fault and you're through. Maybe that's my fear with short stories, since its harder to hide mistakes. Will it measure up? All I can do is put it through its paces and send it out into the world, head held high. Then I can retreat back to my peanut rolling novel, with its inoffensive snaffle bit outlook. But come to think of it, maybe my novel would benefit from a few weeks with a curb bit. It's been feisty of late, changing direction and demanding larger story arcs. How else can I show it who's boss?