How do you tell an officer of the law that you were driving fast because inspiration hit, and here you are without a scrap of paper?
How do you switch mental mode quick enough so words come out in normal form, for otherwise, I’m sure, the breathalyzer would be offered.
Local police, local understanding, and I do not go to jail.
I shed depression like a skin that served well but grew too tight. Constricting thought and growth and moving with slow scales worn smooth by life, no longer offered traction.
I leave behind a papery shell of me in perfect mimic of who I was, and glide forward, new again.
As with a pair of spectacles, I put on my poetics and the world is seen a different way.
The widgy, rubber-squeaky sounds of hummers mating. The male drawing pictures of a nest against the sky, in repetitious semi-oval loops. She, watching, squeaking back approval or disdain.
Ups and downs define a life, define me, defy me. Striving, driving, thriving are the forms. Striving for to soar the skies, driving on a fragile ground, striving, driving into earth to dig for roots and buried treasure. Thriving, growing by the finding, using what we find. Never, never, crablike crawl except to pass the time that’s wasted. Ups and downs are ridden like the seasons.
At least I have learned to compress my thoughts. You still don’t have to read nor understand them.
Grey, grey, grey and green. The Gibb backyard is a depressing scene.
Even the hummingbird is not at his best, needing the sun to flash his ruby throat.
I so need the sun today.
Another good post at The Reading Experience on creative writing and literary criticism (aka critique). These posts have been very helpful to me in calming down my rebellious spirit and general dissatisfaction with both what is being published these days—especially in short story form—and what creative writing is all about.
I’m finding that I’ve really, after all these years, just started learning about literature, and have quite a long road to trek towards successfully producing something that is readable by literary standards, or perhaps, even the general reading population.
Perhaps textbooks in Creative Writing courses should quickly pass through the Hemingways and Munros, and concentrate more on the present. Perhaps they shouldn’t, focusing instead, as they do, on good writing skills and what makes a good story. I suppose, as in anything, if the basics are learned first, then we can go on to fuck with them.
Recently, 2 Blowhards had a most interesting discussion on current trends in literary versus popular fiction, entitled Ira Levin Adds Value.
I found myself copying and saving (and savoring) both the entry and comments for future reference, and right now, I’m pretty frustrated with the fact that in the latest issue of a periodical of short stories, I feel myself almost angry at the authors and publishers for moving literature in a direction I find unenjoyable reading. I love to read. Especially right now, I was anxious to use reading as more than a way to catch up with contemporary writing; to find a place to escape reality. Why then, do I find myself putting the book down after every three pages read? It’s turning out to be more frustrating and stressful than real life.
Below is a summary by Michael of the points he was making:
* Typical popular fiction virtues: narrative drive, irresistible hooks, characters with juice. All of which are pretty basic to the health of fiction generally.
* Typical popular-fiction drawbacks: no sophistication, crude use of language, too little awareness of tone and qualities. The quarrel (semi-legit) with it tends to be that the “how the story gets told” side of things is underfed in popular fiction.
* Typical lit-fiction virtues: precision, interesting use of language and fiction-techniques — “how the story gets told” can often be fascinating. And there’s often an awareness of tone and mood that can be lovely.
* Typical lit-fiction drawbacks: making too much of “how the story gets told” at the expense of the basics of fiction: the story, the characters, the hook.
Readers of popular fiction are famous for “reading only for the story,” and for not caring about the quality of the writing itself. Readers of contemporary lit fiction are famous for being fascists about writing quality and morons about story.
Popular-fiction readers often buy brands (Patterson, King, Steel) and do so in bulk — publishers know that buyers of popular fiction like big thick books (value for your money!), but that read quickly (hence, lots of white space, thick paper), and a discount. It’s the Wal-Mart approach.
Readers of lit fiction often like self-consciously difficult or downbeat books, offbeat design, and a feeling that something of immense philosophical and artistic import is happening, and that the books they’re reading are tuning them into this.
I guess I find myself thinking three things, mainly:
* Popular-fiction writers and buffs could learn a little something from lit-fiction about tone and quality. But lit-fiction writers and buffs should learn a lot more respect for the virtues of popular fiction.
If you’ve missed the entire article and are interested, please find the time to check it out.
My tongue
cannot roll Spanish r’s
nor curl,
nor blow
raspberries.
Worried, just a bit and then forgotten, that I frighten some away with words revealing strange thoughts. Grateful, to those who ride the waves.
Happily surprised and satisfied, by few who understand them, mostly poets such as GLH, and given confidence, I suppose, to stay the path.
Spinning is a blog of writing and some literature; often just a rundown of routine just like so many others.
But seen from, and offered in, I hope, a very different perspective.
Haven’t done a Quizzila for a while. This one intrigued me, plus I wanted an image to brighten things up a bit today:
You’re a Spirograph!! You’re pretty tripped out,
even though you’ve been known to be a bit
boring at times. You manage to serve your
purpose in life while expending hardly any
effort (and are probably stoned to the gills
all the while).
What childhood toy from the 80s are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Bifocular, older eyes that have seen so much, have changed because of that. Up close, and far away, we’ve seen it all, or almost all, but know enough to look at it again. We’re willing to admit to using different lenses, just adding information to the files. We test ourselves at prime vision points, how far away at arm’s length we must hold the page, then put the glasses on and hold it at a different place again.
So much better, I do think, than seeing all from just one flat plane of sight.
Inspired by Denny, at Book of Life.
My world is moonless, black and cool. Backyard empty of its flying colors, sounds not happy chirps and tweets but rustling, walking, stalking that I cannot see at night; ominous, unfriendly sounds.
The black and yellow flutterby sipping nectar from the white lilac canopy where the lady hummingbird had dined all day, gone. Or are they? I wouldn’t know it. Coyotes, or rightly, coydogs, I’ve met out here in darkness a couple times. One so close he glared at me, eyes shining in the catch of kitchen window light; I shouldn’t be here. It’s not my place at night, he says, it’s for him and other creatures. I have the day; that’s where one like me belongs. Leave the night alone.
Same step, same doorway, same trees and rolling lawn, but different at a different time of day. Different as day and night, they say, and this is why. It’s not just what we see or don’t, it is the feeling and the sense of space dependent on the time. And memory of what it is is all we can depend on, until the morning sun confirms what we believe should be.
Truth is only true in light of day.
Only those who have not spent a sleepless night listening to the unrelenting repertoire of a mockingbird can still love him. Thankfully, they change their chirps and tweets and caws, or I fear it’d be much worse for six hours straight. Yes, they can and do go non-stop. One summer’s night the man and I, sweaty, anxious, moved to the very edges of our sanity both crept out in the darkness and aimed an arrow each at he who sat warbling upon our rooftop. There is no aim in dark of night, but flying twigs with feathers were all we hoped for, and succeeded in finally frightening him away.
At least, for that one night.
Very interesting entry by Hugo Schwyzer on Women, appetite, and male fear.
This is a subject I’ve always been fascinated with, and there has always been speculation about the connection, i.e., do women who enjoy eating, or enjoy certain robust flavors, also carry their appetites into other areas of their lives? Seeds of myth always contain a seed of truth, and have, I’m sure, directed both male and female behavior through the centuries.
Check it out.
Decided I was best, stressed and dressed for workin’ round the house today. Some sense of continuity, accomplishment, finishing up what I started yesterday. Some running around the loop of groceries, banks and the post office. You know, the real important things in life.
I should learn to turn off the computer when my brain is caught this way between the different worlds. No, I’m not on drugs, nor need them. This is just normal me.
I’m justified, I think, in putting Dad off until tomorrow. He wants the hedges cut, and I cannot convince him that they’re only beginning to grow and it’s too early yet. But if I don’t, he will, and it’s a bit too much for him, I think. But this: If I wait until tomorrow, at least they’ll have grown a little more.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology