I Used to Write Poems...

This week one of my colleagues did my Introduction to Creative Writing lecture for me. It was - broadly speaking - on poetry, and the use of poetic techniques and language in writing more generally. He's a poet - writes it, teaches it, thinks about it and, of course, publishes it. Wins prizes for it. Talks about it with an incredible depth of knowledge and thought.

He's definitely a poet.

I'm not. So I asked him to do the lecture on poetic writing instead of me. And he did a great job.

While he was talking, he got me to thinking about the fact that I don't really write poetry, anymore. I used to - once upon a time. I used to scribble away poetry about anything and everything. I used to fill notebooks with the stuff. I don't know what's become of them - they're probably buried in an attic somewhere, or else just chucked away at some point.

It's probably a good thing. I can't recall my poems being much good. I can recall what one of my creative writing teachers (a poet!) said about them when I was an undergraduate. I won't repeat it here, but she was right.

But, listening to Paul's lecture the other day, I realised that I don't write poems any more. I told my class yesterday afternoon that I still do write poetry, just not for public consumption, but when I actually stopped and actively thought about the last time I wrote a poem, it occurred to me that I haven't done it in years. Somehow prose has gotten in the way, taken over my thinking, so that I've disregarded the sort of stuff I used to fiddle with - good or otherwise.

And I think I might have done myself a big disservice. I think - to steal from Stephen King's analogy - that I've neglected one of the key tools in my writer's toolbox.

Don't get me wrong - I've got no pretensions about being thought of as 'a poet'. I suspect that, just like in the old days, my poetry is probably still given to overblown images, unsubtle metaphor, and hackneyed subject matter.

All that's beside the point, anyway.

The point is in the writing. In the playing and messing around. In having to really think about every individual word, and every connotation and denotation and moment and idea and meaning and linkage of images.

That's what writing is all about. That's how you keep the tools in your writer's toolbox sharp. Poetry is a whetstone for the craft, if you want to put it in wanky terms.

And so, as a result of all this, I've written a poem. I've been working on it - on and off - since Wednesday afternoon, actually. I jotted the first line down in my notes towards the end of Paul's lecture. It's a line I once cut out of one of my books - can't even remember which one now, I think it might have been Fireshadow - But which stayed in my head afterward, so I started with that.

Like I say - I'm no poet. There's a reason I need a 100,000 words to get my stories out. But I've had a lot of fun playing with this. And, because if you're silly enough to check and read this blog, then I suspect you're silly enough to read anything (This is a joke, I really love and respect you all...) I'm going to draw a deep breath, and do exactly what I told my class I never do under any circumstances - I'm going to put it out there. Read on at your own risk.

It's probably just one big cliche, so make what you will of it. It's not very cheerful. It's about tension in relationships (and no, before you even wonder it, everything is just fine at home. I have no idea why I found myself thinking about this particular subject matter - it's just the nature of thinking in poetry, I guess.) I'd say more about it, but I seem to remember someone telling me once that if you need to explain your metaphor, then it's a pretty crappy metaphor, so I won't. You should also ignore the fairly blatant and only slightly reworked theft of a Crowded House album title towards the end.

So... okay... here is a poem that I wrote...

Tidal Break
A domestic moment, played out, perhaps
on a thousand simple stages.
Their long-drawn shadows falling -
in and out as ripples of lust, of loathing
drawing tides apart

As ocean from beach
as sea from air

And each, rooted, treelike, waves
in the same wind;
the same moment.

Actors, without lines.
Alone.
Together,
under an aching sky.

The Writing Gospel According To...(insert name here)

I read Steph Bowe's really interesting (not to mention useful) summation of several notable authors' rules for writing a little earlier on today. (Have a look at it here). It came along at an opportune time, to be honest, because I'm literally right in the middle of planning the course material and content for one of the units I'm teaching this semester - Introduction to Creative Writing. (And yes, I fully intend to use the material in Steph's blog in my opening lecture)

This unit is a biggie - about 200 students - and is one of the foundation units in both the writing and arts degrees here at the uni, so it's kind of important to get it right.

And as a result, writing it has been freaking me out slightly. Partly because it's an awful lot of responsibility - I remember the units I did during my first year at Uni, and how a badly planned, un-engaging unit managed to completely kill all the interest I had in one particular area of study. (thus consigning my interest in the study of History to, well, history) - and I'd hate to do that to my students.

The other reason this is playing on my mind is because, like most writers-who-teach (which, let's face it, is pretty much all of us - in one form or another), I'm finding myself a little plagued with the problem of second-guessing my own qualifications to 'introduce' anyone to 'creative writing'. Who am I to tell people how to go about writing? Just because something works for me, doesn't mean it'll work for everyone.

Take journals, for example.

Conventional 'how-to-write' wisdom generally requires writers to keep journals and diaries, and to be meticulous note takers on everything that happens to them. Textbook after textbook advises emerging or ambitious writers to note down every little event and observation in their day-to-day lives, to carry their moleskine with them at all times, and to mine their piles of journalled experiences for ideas. Hemingway apparently worked in this fashion, therefore it's what we should all be doing.

Except I don't. Never have. Never will. Frankly, keeping a diary bores the shit out of me. At the moment, my daily diary would read something like:

Got up. Fed Baby. Changed Nappy. Went to work. Came home. Changed Nappy. Played with Baby. Fed Baby. Changed Nappy. Bathed Baby. Changed Nappy. Ate. Went to bed.

Not exactly The Old Man and the Sea. (Though you could probably make a case for The Sun Also Rises)

I do use journals, but not in the 'traditional' manner - I have one journal for each major work that I've written. It's my bible for that project; filled with sketches, jottings, notes, chapter maps and plans and references, but it's very much a working document specifically targetted at a particular project. I only start my journals after I'm fully committed to a particular idea, never before.

So who the hell am I to stand up in front of 200 enthusiastic writing students and tell them that they should all keep a diary with them at all times?

Nobody, that's who.

Now, I'm aware that there's a bit of potential hypocracy involved here, given that I posted this here last year. But actually on balance I don't have a problem with writers giving tips or advice based on what works for them. I know I put my approach to writing together by listening to, experimenting with and then shamelessly stealing elements of it from Gary Crew, James Moloney, Isobel Carmody and numerous others .

I suspect its the notion of providing 'rules' that sets my teeth on edge. It's writing. There shouldn't be any rules. (well, okay, there should be at least some rules, like learn how to use apostrophes, but you get my meaning).

Basically, though, I like the idea of tips. If you try to follow religiously every single 'rule' set down by every single writer who's taken it upon themselves to set down their take on the writing process, you'll quickly write yourself out of the game, I suspect.

But if you take the ideas of said writers as a loose set of tips, or guidelines if you prefer, and then play with them, I imagine you'll end up a much stronger writer for the experience.

For my money, Stephen King summed up a very healthy attitude to writing 'rules' in the second forward to his memoir On Writing. (Which I've been re-reading today as part of the planning for this course, so it's fresh in my mind.) I'll leave you with his thoughts on the matter:

"This is a short book, because most books about writing are filled with bullshit. Fiction writers, present company included, don't understand very much about what they do - not why it works when it's good, not why it doesn't when it's bad. I figure the shorter the book, the less the bullshit."