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Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Rewriting rather than ranting or spewing. Part 2 RECOVERED

Rewriting Version 2

Writing as a Writer; Mocking Gallery Be Damned.

Haruki Murakami in What I Talk About When I Talk About Running said that he has difficulty doing readings in Japanese. He writes in Japanese and for him every word is important. 

I don’t know how true that is in my own writing. Yet I love the emotion. 

I read What I Talk About... on the eve of my birthday. The experiment sprung up a few days later. The books rhythm carried me. It brought to the front the training that goes into real endeavors, and the solitary nature of the craft. I must say I do not agree with all that H.M.. said, but with the spirit I am in total accord. The spirit is that one has to work it.

So, now nine days later, I must acknowledge Haruki Murakami for this inspiration. This is what finally gets me back to the project. Many people write clearly and convey their meanings without doubt. Is that my main purpose? No. The purpose might be discovery. Its not simply communication. It's a discovery that I cannot even comprehend fully and that perhaps contains importance for others who read it that I hope for even though I cannot quite fathom.

Here where I blog, to date, I blog. I free write. I let my thoughts flow with the most casual attention to grammar or style or content. I publish my thoughts as camera veritas, roll 'em and wrap ‘em and serve ‘em! 
Yet I call myself a writer. I do. (Dare the mocking gallery in the recesses of my mind its guffaw.) 
As a writer I know the importance of the rewrite. 
The rewrite happens only after the truly important bit: the read. That first read, with a moment's distance, after the computer is closed or the notebook shut is where the writer visits the writing for the first time. The read is where the grand AHA! or AHA!s come. They slumber in the midst of a paragraph or leap from the form of the whole. “Here's the poetry of this trip. Come now,” says the read. 

Along with the Aha!s come the OH NOs! I’d be a liar of the first degree if I left that out. My niggling yet nefarious nemesis in this enterprise has been a solid conviction that the experiment will yield no Version other than the first. There has been the insistence that this exercise is esoteric and unnecessary. Why do this and not revisit the poems and stories that might actually get somewhere. 

So in the midst of these Ahs and OH NOs I write this Version 2.

Then out come the real tools of the modern writer's trade: the cuts and pastes; the blending of metaphors and meters; the underlining or shading back of rhythm and rhyme; the dusting of a final seal of talcum that makes every word sing the same song even as it plays counter to its neighbor. They may not be here yet. They may come out later still. I feel them on their way. They will swoop in with their expertise and flamboyantly sculpt us into gorgeous.

Or any case that is the dream.

What the first version is, is in fact our hypothesis: We are testing by one very unscientific example to see if re-writing does indeed enhance the piece. Our hypothesis is that it does. The experiment is to be determined by comparing the first version, which is a conception of the contrasts of free write and rewrite with later ones.

Let the comparisons begin. 

Is this second version a worthy child of the first? Is it a worthy suite? 

Friday, May 7, 2010

Rewriting rather than ranting or spewing. Part 3


Rewriting Version 3 (Version 2 is lost!)

 

Writing Blogs in A Writerly Manner; Mocking Gallery Be Damned.

 

Haruki Murakami, in his reent memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, said that he has difficulty doing readings in Japanese. He writes in Japanese and for him every word is important. It is of such importance, not only in meaning but in who its addressing that he finds it near impossible to read to a group of people in his native Japanese. In other languages he is at ease.

I don’t know how true that is in my own writing. Yet I love the emotion. The intention of precision and concentration to the craft is loud and clear. However, there is the fluid embrace of chance that I love in many authors and in my own writing that seems more natural and essentially important to me. I'm sure most writing is a mix of intention and chance. The rewrite belongs as much to both as the original. The truth is I may love it simply for its distance from me.

I had read What I Talk About... on the eve of my birthday. The experiment to alter my blog writing with more of an effort at rewriting and thus to determine if a writer owes it to herself to rewrite, sprung up a few days later. The books rhythm carried me. It brought to the front the training that goes into quests and grand endeavors. It shied not from embracing the solitary nature of the craft. I must say I do not agree with all that H.M.. said, but with the spirit of his words, I am in total accord. The spirit is what one has to work it.

 

So, now nine days later, my realization of  Haruki Murakami's   inspiration is what finally returns me back to the project. 

Many people write clearly and convey their meanings without doubt. Is that my main purpose? I think not. The purpose might be discovery. Its not simply communication. It's a discovery that I cannot even comprehend fully and that perhaps contains importance for the others who might read it, an importance that I hope for even though I cannot quite fathom it. It is the importance of the words of my favorite authors, who have left their traces indelible on my soul.

Here where I blog, on poonamisbloggingonforyou, (to date) I free write. I let my thoughts flow with the most casual attention to grammar or style or content. I publish my thoughts as camera veritas, roll 'em and wrap ‘em and serve ‘em! That's blogging. Or is it. Is it instead comprable to journalling. I have respect for journalling. However there is the private private journal and then the crafted memoirish writing that attempts to get somewhere. So, my blogging is less than acceptable, as it is in such a public sphere and should be more polished, more crafty. Would it still retain the heartfelt, my guts on the page? There would have to be some blood.

I call myself a writer. I do. (Dare the mocking gallery in the recesses of my mind its guffaw.)  And as a writer I know the importance of the rewrite. My ex partner was always impressing on me the huge difference in the second draft, at times a total new animal, over the first. That importance is for the reader, even if the only reader is myself, I guess.

Before the rewrite happens there is the oft disregarded element of the read. You read what you wrote. That first read, with a moment's distance, after the computer is closed or the notebook shut, that is where the writer visits the writing for the first time. The read is where the grand AHA! or AHA!s come. They are caught slumbering in the midst of a paragraph or leaping from the form of the whole. “Here's the poetry of this trip. Come now,” says the read, "follow the AHAs."

Along with the AHA!s come the OH NOs! I’d be a liar of the first degree if I left that out. My niggling yet nefarious nemesis in this enterprise has been a solid conviction that the experiment will yield no Version other than the first. There has been the insistence that this exercise is esoteric and unnecessary. Why do this and not revisit the poems and stories that might actually get somewhere.

So in the midst of these AHA!S and OH NOs I write Version 2 and it lived here a while until I tried a short cut route to getting to Version 3.

After the read, the real tools of the modern writer's trade enter the scene: the cut and pastes; the moving of chunks of text; the blending of metaphors and meters; the underlining or shading back of rhythm and rhyme; the dusting of a final seal of talcum that makes every word sing the same song even as it plays counter to its neighbor.  They may not be here yet. They may come out later still. I feel them on their way. They will swoop in with their expertise and flamboyantly sculpt us into gorgeous.

Here in Version 3 we have definitely still to be dusted. Done and dusted.

Or any case that is the dream. We are far from done from this experiment.

What the first version is, is in fact our hypothesis: We are testing by one very unscientific example to see if re-writing does indeed enhance the piece. Our hypothesis is that it does. The experiment is to be determined by comparing the first version, which is a conception of the contrasts of free write and rewrite with later ones. Every version after that, including lost versions are craft.

Let the comparisons begin.

Is this third version becoming more succulent or losing all flavor?

 

 

 

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Rewriting rather than ranting or spewing.


I have written here with out editing and without giving the writing a moment to settle. I have published my blogs as camera veritas, roll em and wrap 'em up! Yet I call myself a writer. I do. (Dare the mocking gallery that lives in the recesses of my mind to gaffaw.) As a writer I know the importance of the rewrite. There in lies another element of grand essentiality: the read. That first read with a moment's distance where in one is visiting a piece as such for the first time. With blog culture, this has not seemed quite important to me. 
Yet I realize I miss it. I read what I have written with the few spelling and grammar corrections, or a witticism or two added or extracted for being brilliant or trite; and its just not reflective of what I truly want to say. Because I do not even know often, for sure, what I honestly have to get out about this thing or that until the writing is flowing. Then there is a sense of oooooooooooh, i see where i am going. And so, I go. Its a careening ride often. Sometimes junty. (Look up that word.)
The read, however is where the grand AHA! or AHA!s come. The sneak around in the midst of a paragraph or leap from the form of the whole. "Here's the poetry of this trip. Come now." Then out come the real tools of the writer's trade: the cuts and moves of chunks of text; the blending of metaphors and meters; the underlining or shading back of rhythm and rhyme; the dusting of a final seal of talcum that makes every word sing the same song even as it plays counter to its neighbor. Or any case that is the dream.
So while I am writing this I am remembering my conversation with someone about writing and writer's block and the ridding of this niggling (look up that word) nuisance that plagues us all in various ways and at various times. I wouldn't say I have writer's block per se. Certainly not now as compared to earlier years after the family trauma. Yet, I do have presently a complete inability to write out a movie review that i have written in my head so fully that its become the rock of sysiphus (wikipedia that.) For me to write it is almost become impossible. Still I have not given up hope entirely. In this way writing one thing reminds one of another, usually another ten or so. Then those things emerge to either blend or be given their own titled land, gentry, ha! 
There is a great deal of choice with writing and yet there is the definitiveness one needs to block out other voices and other thoughts and follow one or two or three to their final weave.
I used to write long hand. I still do. I would try to enter the long hand writing all into various word files. Ah drudgery (theme emerging.) Now I do less of that and more of dual writing. I let my long hand writing remain on paper and the key boarding remain in files. However I am not working on any of my grand book ideas so its not such a problem. I wonder though. Often. I wander as well, but less and less off point . So perhaps, n'est pas, its for the best to leave long hand rather inform the back room of the writer's brain that keyboards and vice-versa, and prosilically as well, the other way around. 
Grand book ideas I have more than a few. Like songs they come to me. Like songs they go too. Not far. Just in the dormitorios or the vacation homes of the writer's brain. Sometimes they don't leave forwarding addresses and forget to check in with the boss, me. That is the problem with their wandering too far from paper or screen. Same goes for the great catch phrases. That is why I want an IPod with a recorder. Well i do have those old fashioned tape machines. But they are old fashioned. would i then be transferring from tape machines to digital voice? AAAAAh. no. 
Some one said, and someone else recently reminded her Facebook community of the saying, that writers write to relive. Well sometimes that is joyous and sometimes that is groundhog day. Usually, almost invariable, it comes to a point where a thought of an event or of an emotions being put into a created even to communicate it, or of an imagined event being put into words of an actual scene or what have you, that the convolutions get to that part of an acid trip where you know it cannot last and you have to land the plane safely or you'll lose a great deal of milage advantage points, or some such thing of equal import. That is when the knife cuts and the ink dries or the key are padded upon. 
With this blog, and i think with many bloggers, this is where it ends. However, that is just the first regurgitation of the bovine bellies of the writing brain. So sad, to think of the lost versions that are stifled and still born when the writing is left as a rant or a spew.
So, with this essay, I will experiment. This is version one. I will next read and then re-write. I will end with the words: this is version two. Ready? Sleep. Hmmmmm, or publish? I haven't even given it the quick once over. I'm going deep. Here you go.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Haikus Modern






1. Haiku party, you.//wutch u facebook poets got?///syllabize with me!! 


2. Chime from life, bell tolls//drums and trumpets declare this//i am conductor.


3. Endless and fleeting,// life the here and now, the then//of the where and when.


4. Life glass solid ground//impervious we walk on//till death scoops one up.


5. Ladeedadeeda//money and time got zilch to say//when snow's on the ground.


6. Leave wit at the door // Now we need naked discourse // Lets delight in us.


7. Haiku for all you// of my dreamscape and sweet tea// reality sings!


8. Good morning sweet world// though i know your cruelties /// your music makes me dance.

9. My love’s not a rose.//My love is a horror shop/// where everyone feeds.

9a. My love’s not a rose.//My love’s kitchen counter top // chop grate and blend some.


9b. My love’s not a rose.//My love’s a disco dance floor /// everyone boogey.


10. Remember the love//like oxygen masks, you first//then there'll be enuf.


11. February, March//days and numbers lining up//feeds hope's soulful dreams!


12. Feeling rather pres//idential i am today//a demo crass sea.


13. The roommate choice made // uncertainty exits left // as books are exchanged.


14. put in too much salt; that with the butter and oil; makes a menstrual meal.


15. Haiku, not hatchu//bless you now for you have sinned/// bled content from form.

16.  naked raw riding//feeding my vision's service//many do starve so.

17.  Time for new haiku/ i so ti red son though here// black night gobbles me

18. Spread it, wet it/ / and watch it grow the ad says // Capitalist spring!

19++Shark swims effortless//biting through, cell walls, soul force//i reach for your land.

19+++ 
If you chose my land// please do not bite, it hurts//you are most            welcome. ((Shams Hamid))


19++++Shams land welcomes me//shark teeth glisten white and red//a butterfly soars.

20. Know haiku power//streaming thoughts to dip toes in//and dive beneath words.

21. Spring feels early // Souls shedding winter like seeds // pink flower opens.

22. Real love knows real pain; Like sisters or strangers caught; Tripping on shadows.

23. Midnight breaks the new day// with night's scent omnipresent// we love what we can.
24. Haiti your tragic wail, is now a familiar sound: a music sold par tout.
25. Is this the real life, or is it just fantasy, caught in a landslide......((Journey))
26. Your heart is willing / yet flesh a fork'ed road / peace lies still in soul.
27.  I feel sick again/ after a moment of well / well, its so much worse!
28.  The earth quakes we tremble / walking from one task to next / a shudder below.
29.  Ma Haiti au soucours/ though we long ignored your cries/ now se tremble terre.
30. haiku master you/ flailing on your beach'ed dreams/ find another glass.
31. Feeling better now/ economic chaos stream// flying past my arch.
32. I am so oh sick. facebook world and vit'min c sick, my ship will soon sink.
33.  Yearn towards a free, where we can there be complete; I yours and still mine.
34. Just check your luggage before we begin this dance cuz i want to fly.
35. Haiku for Haiti, know we love you especially when wind knocks you down.
36. Haiku number two, no particular order, for this cardinal.
37. a haiku for you, facebook friends in facebook flows, feel not restricted.
38. money is my boo; inseperable we two, float our shiney boats.
39. Life rushes rolling, roaring rearing my fondest dreams into deja vu.
40. You will kick my butt, economy criminal,  I will sing my song.
41. Rent long overdue; the mess of economy litters my loving.
 42. Early bird hunting: No worm in my morning time; only you, new dawn
.