On Writing Poetry

The Hemingway "6 word story that made a woman cry" bet is fascinating but mostly because it's part of his Babe Ruthian sized mythis. We don't really know if it went down that way or at all truthfully, there's conflicting history and much hearsay on the topic. It may have been added to or pumped up for effect, we are dramatists after all, and some of us are drunk, another legendary Hemingway trait, historically indulgers seem to whip up a lot of tall tales.

I mailed in that anecdotal opening paragraph because I wanted to get to this: half the country is on instagram it seems wanting to write flash brevity because of the limitations of the medium which is understandable; what's not understandable is that it's all absolute drivel. I'm being completely honest when I say that nothing I've read on instagram, 100's upon 100's of different contributors, has even sniffed readable poetry---makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit saying that. There's millions of fledging writers out there putting their work in the public forum, thinking "my first few words are going to set off the rocket in my reader's minds, then they'll love me, follow me, DM me, and be my loyal fans forever!!".

The problem is that their writing is water logged disintegrating cardboard that's been soaking in dumpster juice for an indeterminate amount of time---but it's been awhile. You can't write something like(I actually wrote the following bad poetry for an example), "Look, remember when we danced here under this same sky? My love I can't say anymore, I promised myself I wouldn't cry. I just miss you so much, I can't bring myself to say goodbye". Literary, poetic, and story telling issues abound.

First and foremost I'm loaded with serious dream changing questions for my bad poetry writing self. Like, "where's here? Who are they? Is she dead or did she just leave? You obviously didn't do the work Mr bad poet self so I will, maybe he's a narcissistic asshole, practicing more lies to deceive, manipulate, and mystify his next victim".

That's enough fun and games, it's time to get down to the business of doing business. A#1: life or death principle for all writers: Strong imagery-creating words are the only way to show the reader how to take ownership of your fragile newborn narrative and hopefully, if you've done it well, they won't put it down. Abstract words that present a story are plentiful, easy to find, and abuse. If you're looking, you'll find the devil at every backwoods crossroad at midnight, waiting for desperate wannabe artists & writers begging to sell their souls for a magic quill, self-writing narratives, and false muses. Bad writers telling shit stories are a dime a dozen, anyone can pen a simple fairy tale sentence but the brilliance of suspense isn't hiding in the melodramatic cliche soap opera scribbles of a hopeless romantic. You must learn how to capture your audiences attention and sense of urgency with imagery by painting masterpieces in each reader's mind. You must learn through thousands of hours of dedication and loneliness the "how" to write so well that's it's not your story---it never was.

Once your reader picks it up and can't put it back down it's become their story then; they own it now for it lives in their mind's eye. That's the goal and if you want it, it's a lonely one-way gravel and broken glass riddled dirt path---and one of those wannabes that's been carousing and loitering around, waiting to sell their soul, ran off with your shoes.

Can't let that get to you, there's mountains of work to be done, and there's no shortcuts or vacations where you get to act like a lurking rapey shadow scalawag chilling at the crossroads, cat-calling girlies and getting wasted nightly. You have well over a million more words to scribble down before you write anything resembling artistic substance. Ruth didn't walk on the field one day hungover and bored, ask somebody what those sticks are for, pick one up and proceed to hit 714 out of the park that afternoon, Cinderella spin as the team fairy godmother sprinkled fairy dust on his beer gut, magically transforming him into the Bambino, then deciding to walk off into the sunset. I mean---I wish it worked that way, that fairy dust market is elusive, maybe it's on the dark web somewhere...