Brenda asked and I will answer. But first. Since no one has answered an earlier question. I will. The mystery gift that I got some people was this:
And you can find more information about it here.
The reading the other night went well. Unfortunately, as open mic’s sometimes go, they go on and on and with new readers they read too long or too quiet or too much much. There were some great readings. Leif, as last time, was inspiring and thought-provoking and there was another woman (didn’t catch her name) who was very performance orientated that was great too. But, for the rest of the two hours, there were small glimmers of hope and plenty to feel frustrated with.
If I was the worst one there, so be it. And I shouldn’t be judgmental and I do believe it’s great that everyone gets oppurtunities like this. This is not a rant about me needing a green room and only red Smarties and a bottle of Canada Dry. It’s more about a devotion to poetry and being part of the literary culture of today. Granted, some of these people could have been absolutely brilliant and I am a dunse who missed it. There was one fellow who sat on a stool and mumbled lines off, that didn’t make any sense, for five minutes straight. Another who tried a bit too hard to be dark and tortured. And then there were so many end rhymes. There are few things that boil my blood as much as rhyming (sometimes rhyming is brilliant, but it takes a really good poet, in my opinion).
I can’t help but feel that the minor annoyances aside I am actually frustrated with myself. I have sort of come to a weird juncture which has to do both with my writing and just my life. When I first started writing I can remember thinking that I wouldn’t become a writer who was consumed with being published and that defining my success and failure.
The other day I was talking to Rob and suggesting to him that he should be going to grad school. Rob, as you may or may not know, is a very smart gent, but like me is concerned that someday someone is going to expose him and everyone will know that he really isn’t smart, just like I am not really a writer. I fear two things at this moment. I fear success and I fear failure. What if I am a brilliant writer and then what if everyone expects me to be brilliant forever. Or what if I am just another guy on the bus, as it were, just another human, no more special than the next. How paralyzing. But you must be ambitious, right?
It now occurs to me that ambition is bullshit. Or at least unfounded ambition. I think what I should be doing is writing because I love it and because that’s just what I do. How do you answer why do you write? I do know that I don’t write for other people and any attempt to do so would really mean failure. I feel as though I am coming to understand this.
My next question–why do I work? To pay the bills. Not good enough. I am spoiled and I need more.
Um–pay attention to yer blog comments.
My apologies. Well for anyone who missed it then.
What if–what if–what if?
What if you don’t ask yourself what if; instead, say, why not? How hard can it be?
Your grandness!
I actually thought they guy on the stool had a lot of potential. He has some really terrible cliches, but he also had some really good lines too. He was (perhaps sadly?) one of the better ones!
I like the poem. Don’t be so hard on yourself – allow you
to write, and then you succeed in being true to yourself. The worldly success or failure is a fleeting thing and very unpredictable, kind of like being a parent…
Thanks for exposing my inner fears for the larger reading audience. I have some medical records that you may be happy to share or some dark personal secrets about my tortured childhood that might make a good PowerPoint. Let me know if you need visuals.
Rob
What are friends for… didn’t you read the small print before beginning our conversation?
Dude! You think too much. You want to be a writer? Then write — it’s that simple.
Don’t get all hung up on the whole “fame and fortune thing.” If you really want to hone your craft, you shouldn’t be thinking about writing for others — just write for yourself, and know that the more you do so, the more you will learn and the better you will get.
Above all, don’t let yourself be constricted by any particular definiton of what a writer is, beyond simply “a person who writes.” Just be persistent in your efforts, continue to write whenever you have the opportunity, approach your work analytically and ask how it could be better, and never stop trying to improve yourself.
If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to acquire an audience who appreciates your efforts. You’ll also stand a much better chance of getting a paid writing position. And if you’re REALLY lucky, some day you might even be able to get paid to write what YOU want, as opposed to what someone else wants.
But whether that day ever comes or not, never doubt that you’re a writer — so long as you keep on writing and striving to create work that pleases the most important audience in the world: yourself.
I have only heard you read once (owing to that unfortunate circumstance of Leif forgetting his poems last time), Rhett, but I think that you are onto something.
I generally find that the poets and artists I connect with most are the ones that know themselves and are true to themselves. I know this sounds all airy-fairy and ultimately meaningless, but I really am not attempting to whip out some fluffy BS. I think that the most enlightened people are those who possess awareness of themselves, and this is a more difficult task then it may seem.
I am neither compelled by the artists who are all performance, nor those who are entirely uncomfortable in their performance; both reveal misplaced intentions. Writing is an act of self-revelation (that, of course, requires ability as well), but I think that we seek art because we are looking to connect with something real. I do believe that all beauty is truth. Why else would we pursue, enjoy, and critique art?
When you write first and foremost for yourself, you defy both pretension and failure, and you offer something of meaning to your audience.
Thanks everyone.