The Interloper

Terrified and pig-headed, venturing into unknown writing territory.

[I’ve been writing for days a story about shaved ice cones and kids playing in the street in summer. It’s kind of done but the following will explain why it’s not ready to share with you. It’ll come later in the week, for sure—hopefully by Saturday. In the meantime, I present my excuse! ]

I’ve been in the doldrums lately, excited about what I write here but uninspired in how I accomplish it.

So naturally I enrolled in a six-week long poetry writing class.

I have always believed that it’s a very good thing to occasionally do something that scares the shit out of me. When I was in my teens and early twenties that meant moving far away from wherever I had settled at the time. I’ve blithely quit jobs and pitched impossible stories to editors. Wrote a book about pies composed more of stories than recipes, which was good because I wasn’t very good at making pies. Decided in my late forties to throw myself into a graduate program taught by very tough journalists and a frighteningly exact and accomplished creative non-fiction writer. Every instance brought a measure of failure and scraped me to the bones, but they succeeded in sharpening how I see and think about the world. They made me a better writer.

I started writing poetry when I was 12 and kept at it until I wrote my first story at 17. I recently dug up the pile of notebooks from those years and it is no exaggeration that they are the worse poems that have ever existed in the world. I took one poetry writing class in college. The teacher concurred I was horrible and not so nicely advised that I stick to narrative writing.

First draft of first assignment to practice conciseness: Please turn in, by Sunday morning, a poem centering on concrete imagery, describing a thing or things. This poem should be no more than 14 lines long, and the lines themselves should be short. The teacher clarified that the lines should be no more than 8 syllables long. This is about my great-grandfather’s wooden chest that my dad inherited and then passed to me. Took me 16 drafts to get anywhere near his instructions and I would still rather it as a story!

I don’t expect this class to change this. Unlike the eight other students, my ambition is much smaller. I want the next weeks to scare the shit out of me, scrape me to the bone but sharpen how I see and think of the world. That, after all these years, I will become a better writer.

---

Teasing images for the next story!