I took a poetry class in college. If you know me (which you most likely do if you’re reading this…but hey, if not, nice to meet ya…virtually…sort of) you can go ahead and laugh right now. ‘Cause, yeah, poetry and I go together about as well as Mountain Dew and houseplants. Which is not well. (Trust me, I tried it. Seemed completely logical at the time. I mean, Mountain Dew perks me up. Why wouldn’t it work for an on-the-brink-of-death houseplant? But no, all it did was push the plant past the brink and force me to say a sad goodbye.)
It’s not like I don’t enjoy poetry now and then. And in the past I’ve loved writing poems for family get-togethers or other fun occasions. But still, me in a poetry class, a class of truly poetry-minded people is sorta funny. It’s just that I don’t get any joy from analyzing poetry. I’m more of a “just say it!” kind of girl.
I did try, though. I put thought and effort into that first poem for class, oh how I did. But all the effort in the world couldn’t take the “dud” out of that overly serious, striving-at-reflective piece. Yeah, it stunk. I tried again. Failed again. Tried again. Failed again.
And, the routine got sorta old. I mean, dude, it’s just not fun to fail. So in a fit of frustration one night, I decided I was done with the whole “trying to be deep” thing and just whipped out a silly story poem. When I read it to the class, I expected stares and you know, maybe a few friendly smiles of sympathy. Instead, I got laughs. Real laughs. My professor liked it, too!
So, next assignment was to write a sonnet. Great, I thought. Sonnets have to be deep, don’t they? If only I could conveniently fall in love…then I could write a perfect sonnet. I jokingly told my roommates that I’d fall in love that night, for sure. In fact, I decided to walk to the campus library and fall in love on the way. Should’ve been so totally doable, right? Yeah, not so much. Instead, I tripped over a tree branch and got beamed by a frisbee. But, the attempt at love resulted in a sonnet all about not falling in love…and once again, it was nicely received.
I’d found my voice. Serious, philosophically reflective…not for me. Funny, light, with a nice little hint of self-reflection now and then, right up my alley.
Haven’t figured out TST No. 2 yet? It’s this: Find your voice. Be you. It truly makes all the difference.
But how do you find your voice? Well, I think that’s a trek that looks a little different for everyone. Personally, for me the pattern has often involved trial and error. My current story is not my first attempt at writing a novel, but it is most definitely the one truest to my voice…Blogging has also helped because it’s freed me to write as me, not as Georgia White or Case Matthews or J. Cullaway (characters in my WIP) but as Melissa Tagg. And as I’ve done so, I’ve gotten a feel for my own rhythm. Sorta like painting. I took a painting class in high school – first painting STUNK. But somewhere along the way, I learned to “feel” the paint, not to force it but to go with it. I’m certainly no Monet, but I’ve got that second painting hanging in my apartment today.
It may seem like a basic tip, but I think finding your voice can be one of the most creatively freeing things for a writer. And it frees you up, then, to find the voices of your characters, too…
Last tip coming up soon and then it’s on to something else. What, you ask? Hmm…
*****
p.s. Okay, I’m just really excited about this and have to share. I finaled in the ACFW’s Genesis Contest. Yay! It’s my first big contest, so this wannabe-author is plenty happy.
p.p.s. All right, since I mentioned my college poetry, I decided to re-read some of it. Thought I’d share…here’s my trying-to-fall-in-love sonnet:
Trying to write the missing chapter
I sought to fall in love along my way
To the library. But you were not around.
So I sit among books, wondering about the day
When our story will open, when I’ll hear the sound
Of your voice, and I’ll know without a doubt
That you were meant to be this journey’s find,
When just a turn of page can bring a silent heart to shout,
“There he is.” But you were not along the line
Between my apartment and the library.
Blast it, I was so sure this was the night, the place.
I read, I write, I wait, time ticks while you tarry
And tempt me with guesswork visions of your face.
I finally shrug and it seems the best I can do
Is write a sonnet about the absence of you.
And now, a sillier selection:
Jack on the pipe
Jack’s eyes are closed as he
soars up then down and back and forth
on the halfpipe
eases into an ollie,
turns into a shaky five-o grind,
slides back down the halfpipe
and into a transition fakie rock that
leads into a backside lipslide.
Slide. Roll. Slow.
And everyone claps
until Jack opens his eyes to realize
he’s still waiting on the pipe’s edge.
His reverie over, Jack’s attention is caught
when up steps then down slides
Sam “Skyrider” Finley.
Skyrider kicks-off with a 180-ollie
pilots into a varial kickflip,
follows with a nose manual –
or “wheelie” to the novices –
glides back down the pipe,
pumps to gain speed,
transition kick-turns into a double heelflip,
tailstalls into a salad grind
that acts with a frontside pop-shove it
to gain the boisterous applause
of all the kids in helmets and pads that idolize
Skyrider and his status as the only kid to earn
a scratched inscription on the park fence
before age 12.
And now it’s Jack’s turn.
He thinks:
Maybe today will be his day.
Maybe today the kids will clap for him.
Maybe Skyrider will clap for him.
Maybe.
Under his arm Jack clutches his board that boasts
new griptape, new trucks, new wheels
and a coveted designer deck that up to now
has never done him any good.
He takes a breath, steps onto the board,
And rolls. Down down down and up.
Up the halfpipe and into
Yes, a varial kickflip with a few
flies and turns and flips and twists . . .
and he’s not sure . . .
Until his face hits the wood,
his board lands on his back
and he’s pretty sure his femur is now located
where his left forearm should be.
He can taste blood.
He can see stars.
But what he hears is better than his best skater’s dream.
As he is carted away in the ambulance,
the applause and cheers still ringing in his ears,
Skyrider’s voice comes across loud and clear:
That’s my dad.
p.p.p.s. I really know nothing about skateboarding.
