If I had read the room better I would have done so, rather than reading a couple of Driveabout posts at the Tallgrass Writers Guild open mic night tonight. Live and learn.
When I was at Litfest earlier in June, I came across a group called Tallgrass Writers Guild which has an open mic night every month at a Lincoln Park coffee shop conveniently located three blocks from - what else? - the Red Line. It sounded like a good way to get more objective feedback on some of my little writing projects, which consist mostly of the Driveabout and some random poems.
You're given ten minutes and I had timed it so that I could read two posts and one poem, but Whitney, the lady who presides over the group, broke in about two-thirds of the way through Fort Stockton to remind me I only had ten minutes. So either my timing was way off, which is possible, or she didn't care for what I will admit ended up being a fairly tedious history of Fort Stockton. It had sounded better when I'd practiced at home.
Everybody else read poetry, some of it quite good. My problem with poetry readings is that I usually need to read or hear a poem a couple of times before I get it, so much is lost on me if I only hear it once. I did refrain from the urge to ask someone to re-read one of their poems - which would be high praise from me, actually, but sometimes comes across as "I wasn't paying attention; please repeat." Anyway, this was definitely a poetry group and people only read their poems once.
It's also a book group. They were all talking about books (of poetry) they had published or were writing. I hate to go all Gen Y on you, but I just kept wondering why they didn't simply do a blog. Lots of people do. It's not like most people make money from selling their books of poems, although perhaps I'm wrong about that. No, probably not.
The guest writer was an excellent poet named Timothy David Rey. He looked to be in his late thirties and therefore has some of his work online. The rest of the writers looked older than me. Sort of like bridge only without the high school brainiacs. I'm not sure what that says about my interests. Okay, I'm pretty sure I know what that says about my interests but I don't like the answer so I'll just ignore it.
I do find it helpful to get a flat response. Nearly everyone who reads the Driveabout is a friend or relative, and the only feedback I get is positive. That's most heartening, but it's not necessarily complete. And since I've decided to turn the Driveabout into a longer piece, less positive feedback is helpful.
I've been struggling with the format because I want to fictionalize the story - fiction being more honest than non-fiction. (Non-fiction is weirder than fiction, but for this story the weird will take care of itself.) The other day I finally made myself start and then realized that was a story I simply didn't want to write. So I've now begun again, in a very informal first person format which at least sounds like me and which I enjoy. Which isn't to say that anyone will enjoy reading it, hence the value of disinterested feedback.
That is, if I get it written. After all, I still live a block from the beach, and it's summer.
Oh, here's the poem I would have read if I'd been smarter. I'm not saying the folks at Tallgrass would have liked it better than Fort Stockton, but at least I would have gotten the genre right.
Things Said in Church This Morning
“Life and death and the moments in between” said the minister.
“Birthdays come around so fast” said a woman of a certain age.
And as one enters the second half of one’s life –
Oh, hell, let’s be clear:
As I enter the final half of my life –
Time moves much too quickly.
Perhaps it’s like riding a bicycle downhill?
Except there are no brakes, nothing that slows you down
So that those moments rush by
What had once been long anticipated becomes a memory all too fast.
Giving one –
I really mean me, of course –
Only one choice which is to savor every morsel, every moment,
Every experience, every effort.
As on a bike, keep your eyes open, right?
Don’t pay so much attention to the speedometer that you forget to look around.
And by all means watch for oncoming traffic.
Fear not, dedicated reader. That is all the poetry that you will see on this blog. As for the fictionalized Driveabout, who knows? Maybe I'll write the whole thing in rondel form.
Love the poem - more!
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