On the Verge of a Usual Mistake

Am I on a Whitman kick?  Yes, I am on a Whitman kick.  (A note to Tim Poland:  I did not get it then, but I get it now.  All things arrive in due time.)

As you probably noticed, my more fretful posts of late have centered on the reception of my work.  I’ve been tentatively venturing into new territories over the past year, indulging new tastes, practicing new habits, trying new things.  My reading has taken me farther afield, and new influences and impressions have seeped into my verse.  I would also guess that I’m becoming a little more confident in my voice and approach, more certain in my purpose, and more ambitious in my attempts.  Alas, I have no real way of knowing, of gauging the quality of the corresponding yield other than the fact that it satisfies me.  I have a few generous readers, but I think they err on the side of kindness and silence more often than not.  As a result, I worry about how the poems of this new era (and stories, too) will fare in the world.

When I’m feeling clear-headed, however, I recognize the underlying folly of doing so.  What I have to accept, regardless of its general reception, is that the verse I’m writing now is verse I could not write any other way.  I can alter my scholarly writing to account for contemporary intellectual currents and stylistic conventions; I can tweak my fiction to meet generic expectations and editorial imperatives.  Poetry, in contrast, does not admit of such straightforward modification.  While I suppose it’s technically possible to read enough material from given outlets to isolate and reproduce the rhythms and nuances of the work they tend to publish (I am an excellent mimic and accomplished liar, after all), to do so would be tantamount to wrapping an empty box with gorgeous paper.  That would only be valuable if all editors were cats, in which case the boxes and balled-up paper would be reward enough for their pains.  (Yes, I lost track of my thought process; let us proceed as if I didn’t.)

…….

Ah, the difference five hours makes.  The point I might have made this morning, rather than circling around the subject like a vulture with a wonky wing?  That no matter how I sometimes wish it were otherwise, the verse I’m writing right now is the best verse I’m prepared to write.  Imagining that I could write differently, in ways that would cause my work to be more warmly received, is one of those odd products of faith and futility.  Good habits persuade me to rethink and revise, and I believe my writing gets clearer and sharper each time I return to the workshop, but fretting about reception is one of the more pointless exercises in my life.  I know it’s natural to worry, to wonder what it is I’m “doing wrong,” but I sometimes lose sight of the fact that my writing is righteous, probably the best thing there is about me.  That’s not saying much–I am, alas, kind of a bastard–but it persuades me to believe that the work is going to good places, even when the process is fraught with uncertainty.

I’m not about to get all Francis of Assisi up in the hizzy, but I’m going to love the work for what it is an not resent it for what it isn’t.  At least I’m going to try.