A New Love for Poetry

A New Love for Poetry

I’m absolutely loving my university Creative Writing class this fall. My professor has taught me so much that I didn’t know or had never considered about writing.

Every writer has bad habits and weak areas. I knew this going in. Anyone who has had a professional editor look over their work will be familiar with the red marks on a page or Google Doc, highlighting for all the world to see the words you tend to overuse and abuse (mine are “all” – used in the previous sentence for shit’s sake – and “too” and for some unknown reason I use “tiny” way too often…sigh).

But in this class my mind has been blown wide open by imagery. I’ve knowingly underused imagery in my work, justifying it by telling anyone who would listen that “I’m interested in the inner landscape so I don’t waste time describing setting and characters.”

Such horseshit. Now I see what I’ve been missing out on. It’s like a giant puzzle piece, sliding into place, informing every area of my writing by upping my game when it comes to descriptive imagery. Particularly in poetry and the art of the short story.

From grade five through second-year university, I attended small evangelical Christian schools. It’s possible I’ve simply blocked it out, but I honestly don’t recall learning anything about poetry in my school years. I grew up with a certain disdain for poems, believing them to be inscrutable and pretentious.

And now I’m studying poetry at the ripe old age of forty-four, twenty-five years after I left university, and I’m blown away by how much I love it and how naturally it comes to me (now that I’ve been challenged to use concrete words and images instead of the abstract ones I’ve been fond of for so long). It’s like a whole new world and I wonder why I waited so long to dive in.

I’m reading poetry, and I’m writing poetry, and I’m knee-deep in the joys of juxtaposition, wordplay and double meanings. It’s fun. And with every word I write, and each new contest I enter, I’m feeling stronger and more confident as a writer.

This is where the good stuff is. It’s in the learning curve, the challenge, the messiest parts of our lives. Approaching writing as if I’m new to it has given me a fresh interpretation of the craft and the process. I feel like I’m in Oz, peeking behind the curtain, and marvelling at the nuts and bolts of building stories, worlds and emotions on the page.

I can’t wait to see what’s next. Bring it on.

This Rejection Place

This Rejection Place

Between what we long for and what we have there is generally a gap. This place is where our discontentment thrives.

I long for a traditional publishing contract. I’ve been querying, on and off, on a spiritual memoir for almost three years. A ton of rejection comes with this process. I knew it when I started. Getting a full manuscript request from an agent early on was exciting, only to be told she liked it but didn’t think she could sell it.

Two story contests came across my social media feed this summer that I decided to enter. I wrote the two best stories I possibly could and sent them off with high hopes. Neither one made the shortlist, bringing back those ugly doubts and fears, whispering all day and night to my spirit: “maybe you’re just not a good enough writer.”

It’s dark and lonely in this rejection place. My psyche feels wounded and lost, like a dark cave where you forever hear water dripping, a sound that will eventually drive you mad.

I handed in my first flash fiction story in my creative writing university class. I was really happy with it, once again telling myself that I couldn’t do any better at this stage of my life as a writer. I got glowing feedback on it but didn’t achieve the perfect grade I wanted. Once again, that voice in the cave was back, taunting me with my own worthlessness.

I do know that writing is subjective. Criticism is meant to improve our skills and we shouldn’t take it personally. Sometimes it’s easy to take a bird’s-eye view of the whole process and console yourself with the fact that at least you are in the game. I’m putting myself out there and trying for something, and the price is the inevitable rejection.

Time heals and takes away the sting. I will keep going, but today I will allow myself to wallow a little in the hurt and frustration. The real problem, as always, is my own damn expectations. I start to write a happy ending to a particular submission story, when I have no actual control over the tastes of the judges or teachers or agents or publishers.

I can only do what I can do, then I must let go of the outcome. Sounds easy, but it’s the hardest part of the whole process. When will I learn this? When will I finally improve at it?

Rejection will always hurt. But it doesn’t have to stop us or define us. Bumps in the road will never stop cropping up. It helps to remember that the people who matter in my life will love me no matter what happens.

The key to resilience is picking up my pen and writing another word, another sentence, another character. I have to believe that not quitting is what will get me to where I want to go, even if it takes way longer than I want it to.