Everything Old Is New Again- Revision in the Age of Fake News

For many years, I was reluctant to revise my poems much. I don’t think it was that I thought they were perfect. At least I hope that wasn’t why. I just truly believed in the strength of the initial draft, the unconscious power of composition that occurred. I was more afraid of losing what I felt was that inherent power, even if the poem itself was flawed. I was more inclined to quickly move on to the next poem instead of spending time with any one piece. This could explain why my output was so much greater in the past. 

I have been busy lately with longer, themed projects, like the Ziegfeld poems I’ve already talked about. I also spent a good portion of the year on a book concept concerning the women of Marx Brothers movies, a project that’s taken a back seat to the Ziegfeld material. I decided to follow my passions more directly, considering my very limited time to write. 

I’ve also spent some time sending poems out, some new (despite everything, there are always new poems), but a good number of old ones. I’ve had some success there, but there’s a certain dishonesty I always feel in sending out work that isn’t representative of my current voice. Nevertheless, I aim for some consistency. 

I pulled a few poems out from the last fifteen years and am trying to assemble them into some sort of manuscript, with the horrifically generic theme of “love.” Certainly, the romantic relationships in my life provided me with a good deal of material, and in turn, writing about them afforded me some cheap therapy that I benefit from to this day. 

In order to make a uniform package, I’ve been revising each one. This is best done first thing in the morning, while I sip my stevia-sweetened coffee, and before the Dagwood-like rush to get out the door for work. Even poems I’d almost committed to memory (although that’s never a goal of mine) come up a decade later as desperately in need of order and streamlining. My biggest fault as a poet is becoming somewhat entranced by the sound of my own words, often to the detriment of logic. Sometimes the sun rises in the west, and sometimes a door becomes a jar. 

The distance of years and deficit of crazy-making estrogen has given me clearer artistic vision. I am making these poems generally better, and most definitely a more cohesive unit. The truth will set your work free. I look forward to sending them out as a family to a few select publishers, or even doing another Flying Monkey Press publication. It’s all the same to me. The word’s the thing, and how it gets out there is a matter of chance.

Writing Retreat- Imagined and Reality

My Beloved is gone until Friday, and as much as I’ll miss him, I fantasize about how I’ll structure my days and, mostly, my evenings. I got some yoga in this morning, had pesto on my egg sandwich, and drank a large green tea with Stevia in lieu of the usual coffee and half & half. It will be a complete day for me if I can get at least an hour of writing time in after work.  

            I’ve submitted a sample chapter for a non-fiction project that may or may not take flight. In the meantime, there’s always something else brewing. I’ve got some new notes regarding the Ziegfeld poems, and a stack of books center stage on my desk, waiting for the pages to be opened once again. And the memoir I put on pause last summer is coming back to me in a new voice, a freer flow that will benefit from the hundred or so pages I’ve already written. So far, the majority of my memoir work has also included research. I’ve felt compelled to pin down exact dates, details, locations. That’s all been fine, but it has slowed the actual writing, and reduced the pace of work to a crawl.  

            Memoirs are subjective. History is written by the survivors. No one has access to the data bank of events and details that I do. Therefore, no critique on that basis will be possible. Research, in the form of old letters and journals, has changed the tone of the narrative. I believe my brain, like all our brains I suspect, rewrote the story so that I could live with it. The journals tell a slightly different story. Players I’d remembered so glowingly have become more complex. Villains (for what is a memoir without some sort of villain) soften and sharpen all at once. I see myself as the anxious parent now of my younger self. To write without judgment is a challenge. I vacillate between my regular snarkiness and objective journalism.  

            Up to this point, I’ve also been writing in longhand. I hope to sit down at the laptop and type. The process is different, and so is the result, but I’m interested in the speed, easing the flow of words a bit. After the fact, I can be more objective about what’s been written when it’s typed, like I’m editing somebody else’s work.  

            Of course, I’ve spent most of my work day listing excuses about why I can’t go to the gym after work. I’m an expert at that. None of them carry much weight though (unlike me), so I’ll get there today. And it’s not like I’m forbidden to write when my Beloved is home. I just make the easy choice of enjoying his company. Not enough hours for both. So today, after the gym, I’ll head home, make another cup of tea, and hopefully settle in for a solid hour of writing something. And Day Two of my self-designated ‘Writers Retreat’ will start again tomorrow night.