Weekly Writer's Report

Dead Again is still under revision, though thus far I am pleased with the new narration.  It makes the story flow a lot better, but I'm dreading yet another edit/rewrite after this one.

Also, 3 of my poems have been rejected.

Ahh . . . poetry.  A torture of emotions.  I once heard that poetry was a young man's vice . . . I'm not positive who said it, but it's a phrase which has stuck with me for years.  Indeed, it has been many, many years since I last attempted to craft a poem.  In my adolescence (in relation to maturing as a writer) I found poetry to be the penultimate form of expression.  Fine art is far too cryptic and music too blase, but poetry was a way to truly understand one's soul (if indeed such an entity exists).  I filled pages and pages and pages and pages and pages--computer paper, notebook journals, sticky notes at work--with wandering words written with woeful, sorrowful sentiments, that any reader would weep over the weariness of my wanton desires and self-loathing.  And in the end, I would sit back, read my poetic angst, and say to myself: ah, what wonderful alliteration that was.

Yet, in the past few years poetry has become sort of a pastime for the back-burner, like a pot of canned corn slowly simmering, unnoticed, unstirred.  That doesn't mean I don't write a limerick or a haiku or even a few lines of modern prose, but needless to say poetry no longer has the same fascination or wonderment it used to.  I still love to play with words, obscuring the path and altering the craft of word choice and symbolic intent, but such an effort finds its way into my stories more so than a poem.  I shall always have a profound respect for poetry, but I must admit that I find writing stories far more rewarding as it is a pursuit worthy of only serious writers.  Poetry can not only be a professional expression, but a deeply personal one, where almost anyone (specifically the illiterate [figuratively speaking]) can create a sense of flow via simple schemes of end-rhyme.

Yet, this is the beauty of poetry is it not?  From the most professional poet . . . to a writer with a woeful poetry collection withering away in dusty box of journals . . . to an immature, amateur writer that has yet to be met, chucking words on the Internet . . . such lives best expressed and easily shared through that the enigma of the poetic craft.  It doesn't matter if you have a degree in Creative Writing or are a survivor of war or are a housewife in Ohio or a sing or simply a kid that's bored during study hall in high school, poetry is poetry.  But your poem is definitely you.