. Spinning .

Tough one to call. Do we need the applause? Do we admit it? Do we sink into despair without the pat on the head, do we act like we are so as to impose? Big egos often cover low self-esteem. I know many people like this. Self deprecation hides conflicts no doubt, but also masks egos weary of boasting to those who may appear shallow or dull in their failure to recognize or live up to our standards.

How do we find the real person within, the act or the actor, the soul of the being? Is obnoxious one really a child wounded and bleeding, or simply obnoxious by nature, is Mister Mouse roaring inside?

For writers and poets, artists and such, we cleave to our characters yet split them apart, understanding them better for being a part of ourselves. A clean sheet of paper–or monitor screen–is but our dancefloor.

Levels of Learning; obvious, no? But reading and writing are open to learning forever and yet we were quite capable of both by age six or seven.

The newness in the style of writing I am currently producing is just starting to feel good. Easier and more natural, at least here in Spinning. But problems occur when I sit down to story-length pieces. Last night was the first time I felt able to incorporate it into one of the stories I am working on now. It seemed worlds apart from the feeling, the wording, the VOICE, and the “tightness”* in the language. I read and reread the four pages I’d written just a few weeks ago, and have edited a bit almost daily, adding little, just tweaking and picking at words. Then I read and reread some postings of late, and wondered how (in the hell) I could make the transition. I may have finally gotten the idea, captured the voice and rewrote. Close, but not quite, but still readable as short story not poetry–my, but they are touching and coming together in places.

For example, a post here that brought interest:

“A young eagle overhead, slow-circling proudly with his selection gripped firmly in his talons. Swirling, catching sunlight on his wings, he flies to find a table as I watch. Oh my, a bird perhaps, or maybe just a mouse (secretly, I hope it is a vole). Fresh fish from the hatchery?

I hope he doesn’t drop it on my head.”

Had I written this into a story, it might have shown up as this:

“I spied a young eagle overhead, circling slowly, proudly gripping his selection firmly in his talons. He swirled, catching the sunlight on his wings, seeking a table to sit at his breakfast. He held a bird perhaps in his grip, or maybe just a mouse. Could it be fresh fish from the hatchery?

I hoped he wouldn’t drop it on my head.”

Minor differences, but one is “tighter”* I guess.

In the short story, I simply deleted “She felt Disconnected, waiting for something to move her, jar her or comfort, bring her back to her world.” It set a whole new tone to the scene.

I’m learning. I’m trying. I’ll get there yet.

*Professor E’s description, and I believe that of Owen’s as well.

There are a couple of things I need do before I lose track of them, and luckily, both are in the same place:

Dan at The Reading Experience toots his own horn in this entry about being published in the literary journal RE:Arts and Letters. But do first read his entry–it explores the questions raised in the differences and similarities of learning Creative Writing and Literature in the courses and manners in which they are being taught and interpreted.

Also at The Reading Experience is Dan’s reference to Word Riot, an online journal that has stepped into the print world to offer literature for resale through small book dealers. By this entry here, I also suggest that you encourage your own local shop to look into handling these offerings. Word Riot–though I have just discovered them through Dan’s weblog–seems to produce high quality reading and I am glad to see that they are venturing beyond the internet for those of us who love to curl up with a good book.

Oh, and thirdly: Discovered Chekhov’s Mistress via Dan’s comments, that also includes a post in response.

Good writing ages, like body and mind from which it is drawn and writ down. Bubbles of youth toy with fables of fairies and angels and elves and balloons. Happiness lost with the first burst of sadness, a doll with one missing arm. Love enters shyly in virginal prose, hid neath a hymen of lessons unlearned. Naiveté vanquished in droplets of blood, coloring boldly words worth their passion; still, there is more to be said.

Loving and losing fine friends and trappings, learning to step on ahead. Backwash is brutal but softened by time, or painted in tapestry swirls that confound. Moving away, moving to someplace, moving to something that never was known. Hidden in corners, blinked back in tears, polished by memory, words learn to describe what was there only better. Boastful or coy, guided by knowledge, life worth the living is worth writing down.

It’s different, just different now. The words, they don’t flow as they used to. In stories, at least. Used to be that I could sit down and write for a day or two and a tale would be told, but not now.

Laboriously, the words appear a paragraph at a time—sometimes not even complete. Leave it, read it again, and leave it behind some more. Days go by, a conversation is started; it’s written down as I’ve heard it inside. Then going back over from title to where I left off, tweaking and twiddling and polishing words. Dropping and cutting and pasting them elsewhere. Some never form black printed letters again.

Slowly, so slowly I lose train of thought, a story develops in serial form. Unfired by my passion, unrushed by my need, someone appears but I know them quite well. Maybe I am just listening harder, maybe more critical, maybe just jaded a bit by real life.