(Most Of) The Truth Will Set You Free

Although there are short periods when I’m not writing much poetry, I don’t think it’s because of a lack of topics. For example, the other night I was up at 2am, not common for me but an occasional thing. I ended up writing a poem about Fred Allen, a humorist from the mid-20^th Century who’s been all but forgotten in this digital age. If it weren’t for the reruns of What’s My Line on Youtube, via the Game Show Network, I’m never would have had the pleasure of seeing Fred’s spontaneous quips. He was a favorite pen pal of Groucho Marx, and for a time one of the biggest stars on radio. You might have trouble finding people under 40 who remember Groucho, much less Fred.

The poem, however, is a thinly veiled political dig. Hopefully that comes through. I’ve never labeled myself as a political poet, but in recent times, it has become a means by which I can express my concerns and suggestions in a creative manner. I try to get to the demonstrations when I can, but in the meantime, I still work my 35 hours a week. I still try to keep my home in decent shape. I get tired. But poems burst out here and there that I’d like to think contribute to the cause.

There are certainly still subjects I try to steer away from, much as I am an adamant advocate for the truth. Poetry in particular seems to be held to the highest standards, even when the story is clearly altered for the sake of telling a good story. Poetry of all the arts seems to be most often taken at face value. I even try to change the facts, if a poem is inspired by real life, in order to shape the rhythm and effect, but I am not very good at it. Perhaps that’s why I’ve finally been drawn to memoir in prose form these past few years. The poems are always rooted in fact, but with memoir, there’s no doubt.

It’s taken me thirty years to begin to tell the story of my early and ill-fated marriage, but there are still parts I’ll leave out. Truthful as I’d like to be, there are still those who don’t deserve to be involved, even as peripheral characters. Memoir is also terribly subjective. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to pin down dates, creating a firm timeline to organize my episodes to. But to others who were there, it might not look like anything they saw. So, unless someone is crucial to the plot (because, after all, what good’s a memoir unless you’re telling it in the form of a ripping good yarn), they won’t be included.

Poems happen, and can be shared with particular audiences I can predict will be most receptive. I was surprised by the very positive reception the Fred Allen piece got this past weekend at a gathering in Arkville. But the memoir is a bigger project, intended for a broader audience (fingers crossed). The themes, plain and subtle, should be universal in appeal and timeless.

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.