Memoir of a Writer at Heart

So...it's Wednesday again, time for a new blog post! A couple weeks ago I posted a poem that I wrote 'outside' of my online Creative Writing class through my college, UW Sheboygan. I think I'll be posting more of my work in the future, not just for feedback, but because I want to 'get it out there' so it speak, instead of each poem and short story just sitting there marooned on my laptop! That's one of the key points in my Creative Writing class, opening up your work to other students to not only receive constructive criticism but also to help you expose your work to others. That has been one of the tripping factors for me, showing other people my work. But I'm learning that it has its benefits, and no matter how much people point out that you could improve, when you take their advice you realize that it was all for the better.

I'm also that type of writer where I'll simply sit down and type free-handed for an hour or so, then come back later or a few days after and read it over, then keep writing from there. It's always been hard for me to go back and re-edit this, take out that, fix a paragraph here, or God forbid completely delete everything and start over! But the latter is exactly what I'm going with a short story series I finished last March. After finishing the story I realized as I went along I began to see a clearer picture of what I wanted it to become in the end, but in the beginning? Not so much! So I braved it and am now roughly a hundred pages into re-writing the beginning of said short story, which is a series called Wide Open Spaces. And no, the title of the series wasn't inspired by the Dixie Chicks song, I've never liked their music save for possibly one song.

When I say 'free-handed' writing, you may be in the dark has to what it means, or perhaps you do free-hand writing yourself. If you're part of the latter, kudos to you! Free-handed writing has always been where I'm at my most creative. Whenever I want to work on one of my short stories I simply re-read what I've already written before and then build off of it to continue the story. Also, I don't like to simply stop in any old place when I'm writing, I either like to stop at the end of a chapter, or at a 'dividing' line within a chapter, where the story shifts from one scene or from one place in time to another. For some, simply writing whatever comes into their head and then making sense of it later seems too much of a haphazard way to write, but for me, even though my fingers are 'following' what my mind is telling me, I'm still in control because I'm constantly registering what I'm writing, instead of just writing 'blindly' where nothing makes sense.

Is that to say that everything I put down on the paper is perfect on the first try? Of course not! But like I said before, even with this blatant fact accepted in my mind, it's still hard for me to go back and edit things. Even though I know such changes could benefit me in the long run, I guess I look at changing such things 'in the moment' as opposed to how my story will be better because of it, say, a few days after when I write again.

Not only has my online Creative Writing class inspired me to continue free-writing it has also inspired me to once again delve into poems. I dabbled slightly in poems in middle school and maybe even early high school, but it sort of fell by the way side like old, tattered clothes ripping off of the line and falling into a muddied ditch. It may be no secret now, but I've always been inspired by old houses and as my professor for the Creative Writing class said "houses are always ripe material, because of their relation to the human body. Such as "windows like eyes," and etc. In turn, I've also been inspired by Fall and trees in general, especially when they are stripped clean of their leaves and all color, stretching from the barren and frozen Earth like skeleton hands of bleached bone.

Delving into poems has helped flex my writing muscle, so to speak. Instead of simply taking a break between working on my short stories I am continuing to write in between, whether it be a poem or two I've written outside of my class, or a poem for my class, or writing a blog post! I've learned, both from myself and from others, that it is good for a writer to write continually. What I mean by that is, you cannot just write once or twice a week and think that your writing muscle will be in top shape. You have to find a way to write a little something every day, or at least four to five times a day. Now if you're a writer you may find that claim incredulous, but it doesn't have to be anything 'big' so to speak, like pounding out a hundred plus pages on a short story of yours. Sometimes I get hung-up on such thinking. Telling myself that when I sit down to work on my own short stories that I have to write x amount of pages or it won't be significant enough. I think for writer's the claim I'm my own worst enemy has never been truer! Who's to say that writing simply three or four pages isn't significant enough? Take a few days for example, that's exactly what I wrote for my Wide Open Spaces, three pages. Within those three pages I could have captured something special, or taken the story line a step further, or reached a climax, or revealed a secret. You don't need to always write a hundred plus pages, or whatever limit you have set in your mind. Whether it's three pages, four or ten, it doesn't matter! As long as you feel both your story and you have benefited from the writing exercise that's all that matters. Within those small amount of pages could be hidden the jewels you'd been searching for, or the plot twist that your story needs to freshen it up, or keep the reader guessing.

One of the reasons I decided to continue my blog long after my English classes at UW-Sheboygan ended is because I enjoy writing, and also enjoy in sharing my random thoughts with everyone who cares to listen! Also, it's a great way to continue my writing, even when I'm taking a break from my short stories or I'm in between assignments in my Creative Writing class. But for how 'random' my blog posts are, I've always seen a common thread within them. Invariably because of my writing nature a lot of them - like today's! - have had to do with writing, but in turn a lot of them have to do with historic houses, country music, the countryside or a combination of all of these! I guess the point is, for how haphazard free-writing is, there is a constant underpinning of tight control that only emerges when we allows ourselves to reach back into the sea of words we've written and pull out sturdy sentences, whole paragraphs and poignant thoughts that'll only strengthen everything for the better.

Just so you can catch a glimpse into just how inspired I am by old houses below I have posted a poem I had to write for my Creative Writing class. It is entitled Memoir of an Old House and it is written in first person from the house's point of view, in which it is reflecting on its dilapidated state and also that of its owner, who is a lonely, aging divorced man. Ironically they are bonded together in their desolation, and find solstice in each other's aging and the blatant fact that there's nothing either of them can do about it.

In closing, I hope you enjoy my poem, as well as what I have written about my writing habits. As always...happy writing!

Memoir of an Old House

Sagging floorboards creak underfoot
As my owner pads his way to the kitchen.
My invariable early morning complaints
In tandem with his own.

My plastered walls barely restrain
Wind’s frigid exhale beyond.
Thin air curls out of wrought iron vents
His feet seek refuge from the cold floors.

Through each wavy pane in these wooden windows
With their deep sills and paint-chipped frame
I have witnessed many centuries unfolding before me,
Caught in time’s snare while the world tumbles forward.

His hand slides deftly down my banister,
Its wooden surface has lost its radiant shine.
I know the routine he follows each day,
Each of my rooms a reflection of his life.

My six-paneled doors stick when humidity rises,
He sleeps in on Saturday mornings.
My rusted screen door bangs open on windy days.
He stays up late to watch film noir on Sunday nights.

I, a lone aging sentential perched upon a hill,
He a forgotten man of divorce.
In our abandonment we have found unity,
A common ground like my cracking foundation.