While I didn't intend ever to write a poem a day for 30 days--I know and respect my limitations--I did indeed write ten poems over the course of the month, which is more poems than I wrote in the preceding year. They are not all good. Some I like quite a lot; others will surely recede into the space occupied by all those other things I've written that were not quite up to snuff. A junkyard of words which I occasionally visit to rescue some rusted phrase, some battered metaphor, for a new venture. Reduce, reuse, recycle.
Reading over my month's handiwork, however, I feel an unequal mixture of confidence and bewilderment. As is my tendency, I obsess over what I perceive to be failures instead of patting myself on the back for those pieces of which I am proud. I even had a hard time responding to comments on those poetry posts--and especially complimentary comments. I have never been good at accepting compliments, and that continues to bother me. On the other hand, the poems of which I am less certain yell at me as I re-read them now, "DON'T QUIT YOUR DAY JOB! Oh, wait--"
There's always fiction, of course. And I do love to tell a story. I wrap myself up in the narrative, fill out as much context and background as I can to the point of annoying both my audience and myself. I am the tangent girl, I am committed to digression. You see, it's the details that make the story: the emotional backdrop, the quiet ironies, the colors and sounds and smells are what so deeply embed our memories.
So why not write memoir? Because memoir is false. Memories are false. Don't believe me? Have a drink. Now have another. Tell me what happened again--aha! You forgot, you embellished, you told me a story. A fiction. A lie.
Is there a difference between fiction and a lie? Only if you pretend it's memoir. Go ahead and embrace the fiction. Stories always start at the beginning, even when their beginnings are their ends. And if you know how the story ends, you'll edit out the bits that don't feel important, don't support your hypothesis, don't help the narrative.
And in the beginning....
Two people walked
to the edge of a cliff in 1976
and threw themselves off.
At the bottom you will not find
their bodies. You’ll find mine.
My father tried to kill me
before I was even born. He threw
my pregnant mother over a third-floor
banister. He says he doesn't remember,
but her broken collarbone never
forgets. We must have slipped
Four months later, I crawled
out of her battered womb
already cowering, trying to avoid
boots no longer kicking
but apparently made for walking away.
To be continued.