Cliché-lovers would argue that our lives are books, segmented into chapters and side plots, tidy and teleological. I venture to say that, if a book at all, mine is an anthology, unified only by consistent transitions amid a collage of lessons learned, un-learned and re-learned. It is precisely these transitions, these convenient jolts from scene to scene, that dog ear the lessons learned, applied, defied, and redefined. Writing is no exception to this standard. I have been taught how to write on multiple occasions, by multiple heroes and villains, in multiple settings, concerning multiple techniques with multiple outcomes. But to say that I am a sum of these parts, that I have learned how to write… it would be blasphemous (or untrue, at least). Certainly, I have learned approvable tricks of the trade, ones that might land me some respectability among semi-intellectual circles. But to claim that I wield them appealingly would put me at great disadvantage; I am too young to be at the end of that rope. Upon reflection, I now realize that, above all, I crave transition, that place where one can put down the proverbial book, take a break, settle for a while, and begin anew. This is learning, this is a process, and this is how I am learning to write.
Specifically, when I say process, I refer to the accumulation of learning experience. Of course, not all of these experiences render happy thoughts. In fact, few of them do. But just as two times two equals four, I am a product of variables, the ups and downs, the positives and negatives comprising my writing background. So, amid the great procession I accrue both pros and cons until I hear a voice which is entirely my own. And when that voice crescendos, the variables fall into place.
Placement, however, demands a starting line. Elementary in origin, my days as a writer were colorful, quite literally. In Kindergarten, assignments were basic: the letter of the day was B, the color blue. “Color the B blue.” This was repeated and embedded and the alphabet was learned. First grade revolved around vowel hymnals and additional coloring books. The next couple of years introduced dotted-lines and to-the-point instructions: “Neatly trace the letter A, B, C. & etc.” These letters eventually took on new forms, entire words, and later entire sentences. The transitions accumulated. ABC’s shifted to c-a-t, melded into “See Sam run,” evolved into spelling bees and memoirs soon thereafter. But in the midst of the repetitive jingles, subject/verb agreements, and adverb/adjective differentiations sat a story itching to get out. Or was it me? Either way, the prompt found me.
The prompt was such: Your mother brings home a brown paper grocery bag and sits it on the kitchen counter. It begins moving. Finish the story. I knew good and well what lay in that bag, thank you very much. It was a poison dart frog, green with black spots actually. So, I did what any respectable creative-writer would; I wrote the poor fellow out of the bag, out of the kitchen, out until he nestled into his element, lush and vibrant. In the process, I found my voice. But paper bags tumble to the wind and, given enough time, even the surest of voices muffle.
So in the tradition of multiples, it would take another four years for me to hear myself amid roaring deadlines, methodical citations, and meticulous proofreads. Segueing into college, essay draft after essay draft forced me to reconsider my intended major, English (?). My grades were fine, my GPA stood sturdily, and my learning commenced. But where was I? In a classroom, yes, but not in my writing, definitely not in my element. I was, once again, a paperbag hostage, transition my ticket out.
And then I took it, a college elective, just a trendy poetry course. I met Elizabeth Bishop and her “Fish”; I watched Mrs. Plath “eat men like air” and sat by while E.E. Cummings redefined ambiguity and made everyone an “anyone”. And I was to write like them?! I was supposed to imitate the greats? [Enter defeat]
The process had no doubt upped its ante. But there was something magical about an assignment rendering me, the lowly student, helpless; it practically welcomed defiance. What’s more, it laid way for breakthrough. I read those poets’ greatest works, even some of their minor ones. This was a new type of learning. The anthology had progressed and the protagonist altered, but the pages continued turning. And for a brief time, B was blue again and the dotted lines were anything I wanted to make them. This poetry was boundless, at times even illogical (“Jabberwocky” anyone?). The words danced, sometimes swam and in an instant could vaporize. Amid a backdrop of multiple transitions, this was one in which I could finally factor myself.
I envied the fluidity with which those word wielders unified their most disjointed concepts. Rigidity was nothing in light of smooth transitions; subtlety was an ally. So, on a breezy autumn afternoon, I penned one of the aforementioned imitation poems, “Basics”: A slice is a slice of grass. It is green because jealousy cuts jade that way, blue and yellowbland. Slice they slice and cut and choke, jade blades sharpening sky. The cat [or was it a frog?] was out of the bag again.
I proceeded, putting the poem down, revising the hell out of it, putting it down, and eventually revising some more hell. This was the process by which I truly came to understand Walt Whitman’s notion of that “sweet hell within,” the pitfalls of creativity. I was a walking, writing transitional muck, ever-evolving. At last, the multiples diminished and I nestled into my new-found dimension. With shaky footing, I grounded myself in my own words. Veering toward my affinity for puns, word play, alliteration and stream of consciousness, I trained myself to meld the literary techniques of my poet heroes. I wrote on: Oh say can you see the fog down below is marshmallow untoasted. Campfires are singsong nightlights chopped. Cut me down to size. A dash of Frost’s nostalgia, a dollop of Ginsberg’s play-by-play and a dab of Sylvia’s acidity: such were the ingredients for my first sincere piece of writing. And although my work was un-profound and aesthetically stinted, it was unbridled and self-expressive, two necessary qualities for a much needed segue.
Here now, a few years down the line, I am patchworked, multiple in perspective, contradictory in motto, and forked in method. But occasionally, with proper stitching, the pieces align, even overlap. Then, and only then, can I claim to be a writer. Meanwhile, I process…
No comments:
Post a Comment