One thing to consider before asking yourself or anyone else the questions I pose below is to think about what the purpose of art (in general) is. Even as I focus mainly on poetry, I’m sure there are as many different reasons for writing poetry as there are poets, but personally I find there are four main reasons: to create lyrical movement and sounds, to create bold imagery, evoke emotion, and share experiences. Poetry, more so than prose, focuses on the sound and rhythm of language to create movement between words. The mere fact that I took a poetics class in university that focused primarily on scansion (where you study the rhythm of a poem by marking and measuring stressed and unstressed syllables in poetry lines) shows the importance of sound in poetry. Language poetry (featuring Charles Bernstein, Rae Armantrout, and Fanny Howe as some standouts I enjoyed studying in class) was a poetry movement started in the late 60s to early 70s that focused on trying to show how language itself could be used within a poem, often disregarding traditional poetic techniques and even cohesive meanings. On the other end, there are poets who focus mainly on description rather than on theme and/or deconstruction. Imagist poets like Ezra Pound (it seems his poem “In a Station of the Metro” is in every poetry textbook ever), H.D., and William Carols Williams (his “The Red Wheelbarrow” poem was a personal eye-opener to understanding imagism for me, though why a loving parent would name their child after their surname is beyond me) used concrete images and sharp vernacular language to create strong imagery. I found that there being little, if not any, subjective language in these poems forces the reader to find their own meaning. On the other end of the spectrum again, poetry can be used not just to explore and deconstruct language or describe images, but focus specifically on evoking emotions, whether it’s the emotions of the poet writing it or the reader reading it. We’ve already touched on the strong emotions of 19th century Romanticism in my What Even is Nature or Nature Poetry post, but we can also look at the more modern confessional poetry of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton and Allen Ginsberg or contemporary Spoken Word performance artists like Staceyann Chin, Sheri-D Wilson, and Shane Koyczan which bring their individual, personal selves into poetry, evoking emotion through experiential storytelling. These movements also show the very human need to share stories that goes all the way back to the oral tradition. These are just a few examples in the whole wide world of poetry out there, of the ways an artist can communicate with their audience, combining and narrowing in on different aspects of poetry.
I’ve met poets that are avid bookworms and rabid academics who probably know most if not all of the poets, poems, and history I mentioned above, as well as poets who’ve never studied poetry past what is prescribed in high school and are apathetic towards reading canonized poets. I’ve met poets who write only for themselves and don’t share a majority of their work to those who’ve gone on to teach and share poetry to gymnasiums and theatres full of people. All of them have found effectiveness in their own way, and while I won’t proselytize to you and say you need to read the mountains of poetry expected of someone studying literature in university, I would encourage anyone who wants to stretch their creative flexibility to always be willing to analyze and ask questions of not only their own work while editing, but other poets’ as well, whether they be an established essential poet taught in the curriculum of every high school or just your friend testing the waters of their own artistry.
When I was giving tips on how I best try to remain focused, I touched on some stereotypes that plague an artist. If you’re even a little familiar with Stephen King’s work, you are aware of the alcoholic writer detached from others around them. I wonder if anyone has ever pictured me alone, plugging away on some dusty typewriter (click click swing, click click swing) and the floor surrounding me littered with crumbled balls of frustrated ideas. While the act of writing your thoughts down is a solitary activity, there is a community behind every writer. Just think of all that goes into publishing a book: editors, beta readers, proofreaders, publishers, etc. The art of communicating your thoughts on paper and communicating with other people may have a slightly different skill set, but both are significant in bettering your craft. It’s important to have a running dialog with your fellow writers, fans (even if your only fans are blood-related to you), and veterans of the local artist community, but also with yourself. In the next three parts I’ll focus on the questions you need to ask the writers you read, the writers who are your peers, and the writer within yourself in order to help put forth your best work.
…While Reading Other Writers
Whether you’re cracking open a new short story anthology or reading a poetry book by one of your all-time favourites, not every text is going to connect personally with you. Even if you’re a fan of the topics and themes, you’ll likely only enjoy a fraction of them. Readers of your own work will be no different, no matter if you’re sharing your first completed poem with friends or have published several works professionally. Some works you read or see performed will immediately hit you with their technique, move you to tears, or make you think. Some works you simply have to read a few times and ponder over before you find yourself nodding along with it. Some works you’ll positivity loathe from the get-go and other works still will just remain on the “meh” part of your personal literary spectrum. You’ll likely have similar feelings with works you’ve written yourself. I can’t promise you that you’ll read through my advice tagged posts and write perfectly every time afterward, and anyone trying to give you advice, whether they be a first year philosophy major with the unkempt beard and man-bun or a well-seasoned mentor who tells you otherwise is selling you something. Even with my professors in university, the best resource they gave me was structured study, deadlines, constructive criticism, and a whole classroom of colleagues to bounce ideas off of. Mentors and peers can introduce you to different types and eras of poetry, expose you to authors you may have not have considered or even found on your own, and guide you, but you won’t find your own style by merely mimicking other artists. It is however, important to use the artists that came before you and question what might have caused a large audience to find them appealing.
After reading enough poetry and prose, you’ll see patterns emerge as to what your preferences are and you’ll begin incorporating aspects of those preferences into your work, whether you’re aware of it or not. In my own readings, I discovered that in the wide berth of nature poetry, I prefer regional poets, poems that use nature as a setting-character as opposed to only image based poems, poems around a page in length, poems that use language closer to how people actually speak, and poems devoid abstractions and boldfaced philosophizing or preaching. This doesn’t mean that I couldn’t enjoy reading or writing other types of poems, but acknowledging what you find engaging is important to building your own style.
When reading try to think of every aspect of poetry you consider when writing your own poetry. Prosody (the patterns of stress and intonation in a language), theme, diction, punctuation/grammar, imagery, figures of speech, poetic techniques, and how the words visually appear on the page (whether that be line and stanza size, whether the poem follows a structure, or the shape the poem takes) are just a few things you could analyze, employ or base your poem around. Look at how other poems use these aspects of technique to their advantage, and ask what they add to the poem overall before adding it to your own poetic toolbox to use later. If there is one piece of unadulterated advice I’ll give, it’s this: do everything in poetry with a purpose. A lack of purpose can be the point of a poem, but that’s still purposeful. For example, I see many poets who capitalize the beginning of every line regardless of proper punctuation or any other reason other than they’ve seen other poets do it. Even if you don’t want to use proper grammar or punctuation in your poems (in fact it can be a lot of fun to play with and actively deconstruct common structures of grammar), it’s important to consider how capitalization may emphasize certain words or break up the flow of a poem rhythmically or visually. As much as I encourage looking at other writers for inspiration, I’d argue against using any technique, scheme, or structure just because “that’s how it’s done.” It some aspect of poetry is not serving you, ditch it.
There are of course, many different ways to analyze poetry or prose. I notice a distinct schism in academia on whether to look at a work through criticism or theory. I’m going to use photography as a metaphor to explain the difference between the two approaches. Criticism (or formalism) doesn’t necessarily mean coming to a conclusion on the value of a work, but more of exploring the piece in-depth. Let’s say you take a picture of yourself, a critic would take the photo and look at it as it is. They might analyze the lighting or framing of the subject, and maybe discuss how various photographic techniques such as the rule of thirds were employed. Theory tends to look at a work through its context within a bigger picture, whether that is comparing and contrasting a work to other works or through a specific theory, such as queer or Marxist theory, or by analyzing the historical, social or biographical context in which the photo was taken. The theorist may question the make and model of the camera, consider the place of selfies throughout the photographer’s portfolio or personal history, compare your selfie with your friend’s selfie, etc. I do believe you lose out on a full analysis if you stick with only criticism or just theory.
As an example of the importance of balancing criticism and theory, consider one of my favourite poets of all time, Adrienne Rich. When you compare her earlier work (in the 50s) to her later, more well-known work such as Dream of a Common Language or Diving into the Wreck, they seem to be written by two very different persons. I found the work close to the beginning of her writing career to be more traditional both in topic and structure, not dissimilar to some Romantic-era poems, but felt a little clinical or distant emotionally while her work from the 70s onwards were emotionally gripping and the traditional structures and themes had lost their grip on her. If you used criticism on these poems individually, you’re sure to get a wealth of information regarding poetic structure, schemes, and the themes hat directly contribute to the poems themselves. However, if you include the fact that Rich lived from 1929 – 2012 in America with her living her younger years in the more restrictive 40s and 50s before immerging into the more revolutionary 60s and 70s, not only does her style and topics of writing reflect historically what was going on, but also personally. Rich began her adult life with a husband and three children (reflecting the more traditional family life of the time) and in the late 70s began her partnership with Michelle Cliffe with Twenty-One Love Poems being written a year after. I won’t say that either approach is superior to the other, but by using both criticism and theory in tandem, you’ll get a full picture of a work or artist.
While reading other writers, I find the most important questions to ask are: what purpose does “x” serve the overall meaning or technique of the poem, and how could the historical or personal context of the life behind the art affect the poem? These two questions may seem simple and innocuous, but as we see from above, you can dig very deep into any artistic work it you so choose.
TL;DR? Questions to Ask While Reading Other Writers
- What could possibly made/makes a specific writer (whether they are currently popular or have stood the test of time) appealing to a large audience?
- What do I find to be personally engaging in the stories or poems I read? Think of every aspect you can think of such as the words and sounds a poem uses, the way they appear on the page, how they follow or don’t follow literary and grammatical conventions, or topics, themes, and techniques a piece employs.
- How is this writer using specific techniques or working with the different aspects of poetry to use them to their advantage? What do they add to the poem overall?
- Am I using criticism or theory to analyze this poem?
- What theories (such a feminist theory) could be used to contextualize this poem?
- How may assumptions about the poet (because of their biography or identity) affected how the poem is received? How you personally receive it?
- How can I balance my use of criticism and theory in my analyzes?
…While Talking to Other Writers
Your fellow circle of poets is as much a lifeline for your writing career as a water filter is on a remote hiking trail. My poet friends are an eclectic, diverse group that tends towards being open-minded and supportive, but in exchange for this invaluable resource of friends and *cough cough* free editors, they will often question your progress, and the closest of poet-friends will demand you really reflect and push your art to its limits. Listening to their performances and critiques will inspire you to write in ways you could never have conceived of on your own. Inspiration in a funny, nebulous thing, and yet one of the first questions hapless interviewers or audience members will ask is how we “get” inspiration, making even the most prolific writer groan internally. The discussion of inspiration is up there with the “what is art?” and “what does it all mean?” conversations in terms of popularity amongst artists after poetry events, admittedly when many of them are either drunk and/or high. Much such philosophizing has taken place in my apartment, thanks to its central location downtown close to poetry events and adjoining pubs and bars. Poetry after-parties are not all that different from normal after-parties, except they tend to dip a little heavier into the aforementioned philosophizing and reading of even more poetry, your own and others. These after-parties are the best and the worst times to seek advice for your own work, because while most are more than happy to give feedback on words written or spoken, they, for better or for worse, people will lack filters that would be in place when they were otherwise sober. Whether you’re drunkenly reciting T.S. Eliot in your living room or are a part of a formal Writer’s Workshop group, there are some rules to keep in mind.
First of all, just accept that not every friend you ask to go over your work will get back to you, and even if they do, it’s going to be on their own time. We don’t expect quality movies from The Pirate Bay, so we shouldn’t expect timely editing from our friends who are doing us a favour. As blunt and crude as it may be, you’ll have to think hard about which your friends are most trustworthy with your work and time. That being said, if you’re a part of a more structured workshop where you’re guaranteed feedback, don’t expect professional level editing there either. There’ll be more a focus on creating discussion around art in general, and not every individual who may attend such events is going to be aware of the unspoken etiquette of such workshops or how to give constructive criticism. Not everyone has the vocabulary to communicate what exactly they may find good or bad about your work, so it’s important to be patient.
Speaking of patience, most workshops I’ve been to have a “round-robin” situation. Whether it’s for a creative writing class where your colleagues gets a week with your work or you’re at a community poetry workshop where strangers are seeing your work for the first time for fifteen minutes, you workshop buddies will take turns handing out critique. This is not the time for explanations, rebuttals, or outrage. Write down what everyone is telling you even if you think it’s stupid—especially if you think it’s stupid—and look for similarities in what they’re all saying. Eventually, the mic (whether that be a literal microphone or metaphorical one) will loop back to you to answer questions, explain, etc. If you interrupt your workshop buddies, you could miss invaluable information that could help better your writing.
While you’re respectfully listening to your workshop buddies, they have a responsibility to be respectful of your time and participation in the workshop. As someone giving criticism, focus less on proofreading and more on overall concepts and structures of a poem. There never feels like there is enough time to fully discuss everyone’s poems, and grammar, punctuation, and spelling are things that most word processors or free programs like Grammarly or even the writer themselves may catch on subsequent re-readings of their own work. Proofreading, while helpful, is not something you necessarily need a room full of fellow artists for. Most of the time, a copy of the work being critiqued is passed around anyways, so if you really want to let a poet know about a dangling participle or errant apostrophe, just mark it on their copy of the poem as it comes to you without saying anything unless the grammar is actively disrupting your understanding of the poem. It will benefit everyone in the room, the critics and the writer, to focus more on the themes, imagery, structure, and other main concepts in the work. With that in mind, simply saying “this is good” or “this is bad” about an aspect of a poem you’re helping edit is not a constructive criticism. The best way to understand this is to go on YouTube and look at nearly any video’s comment section. Comment sections have the opportunity to help content creators better their channel for the audience, but so many comments will simply idolize or demonize a creator without giving reasons to back up why the commenters feel that way. I know that most people who comment on YouTube videos don’t have the intention to help or benefit creators, but merely looking at those comments alone have made me question my own platform. While as an artist, you have to develop a thick skin, there’s nothing more useless to you than vague, general statements like “this sucks” or “I love it.” At least to me as a writer, the point is to keep growing and becoming better, so if you actively care about your local artist community expanding, you’ll think critically about your peers’ work in workshops in order to help them.
While artists may need to have thick skins, we are still sensitive creatures when it comes to what we create. At least, I hope you take pride and care about what you create. Regardless if you completely love someone’s work or completely hate it, it’s important to give compliments and criticisms where they’re due. The point of workshops is to improve, so even if you think the work is near perfect, allow yourself to look over the work for anything you think would help your workshop buddy. On the flipside, if you don’t think much of someone’s work, it’s important that you end on a high note to encourage your workshop buddy rather than turning them off from improving their piece or from writing in general altogether. Look up the legacy around The Eye of Argon by Jim Theis to get an idea how damaging nonconstructive criticism can be for a writer. If you don’t like reading (I don’t know why you’re here if that’s true, unless…Hi Dad), Dominic Noble’s coverage of it in his YouTube video “The Tragic Story Behind The Worst Fantasy Book Ever Written” is worth a watch.
While it is important to consider a workshop buddy’s feelings whether they are a stranger or your best friend, don’t be afraid to call out aspects of a colleague’s work as problematic. “Problematic” is such a loaded word nowadays, but it’s important to remember the power of art to communicate all sorts of ideas and to question your workshop buddies about the language or concepts they may or may not have intended. The point isn’t to accuse, but to bring it up, explain, and suggest alternatives. This will not only make for a workshop that feels more open to discussion and friendlier, but will expand your, the artist in question, and the workshop in general’s exposure to different perspectives which makes for better artists. Nonetheless, be as impartial as possible while reviewing a fellow artist’s work. There are no “friends” or “enemies” at writers’ workshops, only fellow artists looking to improve. Don’t go easy on friends or harder on people you dislike. This isn’t just about affecting your friend or foe from improving, but people will be looking at you as an effective workshop buddy or not. Workshops shouldn’t be viewed as just an avenue to improve your own work, but for you to also improve your critical thinking and criticism skills. The more effective you are with these skills, the more likely other members of your local community will want to exchange work and ideas with you, which can lead to further opportunities. In short, don’t be an asshole. This is just a general rule of life. Think about what you’re going to say before you say it. Don’t make thinly veiled personal attacks in the guise of criticism against other people, don’t stew in negative comments received or given out. Don’t talk over or belittle your workshop buddies, because unless you’re forced to be with them for a class, they will no longer be your workshop buddies.
The workshop etiquette doesn’t end with the workshop however. One popular method professors employ in university is the 48-hour rule after giving students their grades back. This can apply not only to after workshops, but when you initially finish a piece. Set it aside for at least a day before coming back to edit your work. With workshops, let yourself simmer down from any positive or negative criticism before looking over your work again or confronting the people who gave that criticism to you. You’d be amazed how much it can help your perspective on your own work. Even with going through writer workshops or peer reviews, at the end of the day it is important to take everything with a grain of salt. All the criticisms you receive, whether they be from friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, published authors or editors, take them all as suggestions. If you feel any suggestion goes against what you feel is right for your work, leave it behind after taking it into heavy consideration.
TL;DR? Questions to Ask While Talking to Other Writers
- How many times is acceptable to poke my friend about editing my work before I should just drop it? Is the work being edited or my friendship more important?
- Is what I’m being told about my work actually constructive criticism?
- If you feel the need to interrupt a workshop buddy (first of all, don’t), internalize why you became defensive. What is it about what your workshop buddy said that caused a visceral reaction in you?
- Am I proofreading or actually editing my peer’s work?
- Am I just making a value judgement of the work or actually giving advice to help my peer?
- How can I balance both negative and positive criticism for a workshop buddy?
- Do I need a thicker skin or is my peer being insensitive?
- How can I civilly approach problematic aspects of a peer’s work without jumping to the worst assumptions right away?
- Am I being biased towards a peer based on my personal feelings about them?
- Am I the asshole?
- Have I had enough time to consider my peers’ criticism to effectively edit my work?
- Does a piece of criticism actively help you improve your work?
…After Writing Your Own Work
So you’ve put the work in. You’ve been reading other writers past and present and been talking with the writers of the future. You’ve pulled together all the ingredients of brainstorming, time and effort and made a poem, short story, experimental whatsit etc. Perhaps most importantly, you let it sit for a while, like cookies waiting to cool after they’ve finished baking. It’s time to return to edit your poem. To go over grammar, spelling, syntax/diction, etc., is really only surface-level editing. If you really want to understand your own work and make it ten times better, you have to be willing to interrogate it yourself and really think about what you’re trying to say with it. In journalism, there are the “5 W’s” of writing we learn about in school, but in a time where everyone is one click away from sharing their words with millions of people, I’d say the “where” and “when” is less significant to your editing process, unless you’re secretly a time traveller, and in that case, I have more questions for you, but we can talk later.
Sometimes, asking what your work is about can be harder to ask yourself than you’d think. Frequently, I’ll get wrapped up in the flurry of process, come back to a poem or have someone else look at it, only to discover that one stanza touches on very different themes than the others and could become an entire poem in of itself. Moments like these are important to realize, where to omit and where to add, but that doesn’t mean your draft is “bad,” it just means it’s a draft and still has a long way to go. Most writers don’t get it right in one take, so don’t expect that of yourself. It’s valuable to ask yourself: “am I able to describe what I’m trying to get across in one sentence?” If not, maybe you’ve made your poem a 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash and it needs to be separated. Because sure, maybe that 3-in-1 keeps your body clean and smelling like a pine forest, but it you need something that’s going to moisturize your poor, dry scalp in the middle of winter or give your hair that little extra oomph in the back when you decide to go out on the town, you probably won’t find what you need in a 3-in-1.
Asking what your work is about isn’t always a simple case of looking at themes, subject matter, or even genre. While it may be an incredibly broad place to start, figuring out if the piece is located in your inner world or outer world is a good beginning. Of course there is crossover between our private and public lives, but it will focus at what angle you’re attacking the “what” of your piece. If it’s about the outer world, whether you’re getting political or dipping your toes into imagism, it may need more primary research to avoid spreading false facts. In the throw of just getting something down on paper, maybe you forget some important statistic or fact you hand-waved at first because of your argument, or you forgot how many points there on a Maple leaf (it’s 11 by the way, if by some coincidence that was the info you’re looking for). While unreliable narrators/speakers (characters in stories or poems that tell things from a biased or non-credible perspective) can be used to great effect in poetry or prose, they are better used purposefully than accidently. The point is for characters to be flawed, not you. When writing about your inner world, there is going to be a different type of work you’ll have to put in, and I’d argue it’s the more difficult of the two. If you’re writing a poem to vent, that’s one thing, but if you want a piece touching on your personal experience to be shared you’ll have to understand the feelings or experiences that are behind a personal piece. Otherwise you’ll end up with amateur disclosure poetry (common in the spoken word genre, typically on personal experiences with trauma). I think personal experiences are a powerful thing to share so that people may come to relate and understand each other better, and maybe you don’t have to have full closure on what you’re writing about, but a purpose beyond venting will need to be obvious to an audience if you wish to be seen on a professional level.
I’m going to say something a little bold here and say that all art has a purpose, and all art is political. You may not consider the print of a sailboat hanging in your dentist’s office “art,” but it still service the purpose of covering an otherwise empty piece of wall, draws your eye, and adds character to an otherwise clinical (and for some scary) environment. While many people may not consider the Twilight series high literature, it has entertained a niche of teenage girls, their mothers, and many others while still noting that even attempting to tackle the gender and relationship dynamics in that series alone would make up its own series of essays. Even declaring your own art as apolitical or deeply personal is a political stance in a way, because you are making an active choice to avoid commenting on the politics and society around you, a privilege not every person has. Fiction is not removed from this. Many sci-fi and fantasy stories comment on society as a whole or are full or partial reflections of the writer’s personal philosophy. There’s also a difference between those who choose to write about their specific, local space (regional writers)and those who write more generally or for more international audiences. While it is no simple task to create a timeless work of art that will stand the test of time and be appreciated by people all over the world, focusing on your local region or another place that is deeply personal to you can have other benefits despite the loss of universal appeal. One of my favourite examples of this is in Nora Gould’s deeply personal collection I See My Love More Clearly from a Distance, whose poems fall mainly on the east central Alberta plains. I’ve yet to visit Alberta, so many of the flora and landscapes she describes are alien to me, and yet her personal connection to them sings through the poetry and keeps me reading even if I can’t fully relate. It is one thing to write about a tree, it’s another thing entirely to write about a maple tree in the Canadian Shield backcountry. The latter is a more evocative image on its own.
When one of my closest and oldest friends, Robert, critiques my work, he often asks “what is the point?” and it’s not something asked out of rudeness. I find it in the least an interesting thought exercise to try to determine where my own personal approach lies. If one doesn’t know the purpose of their own work, how can they expect anyone listening or reading to find it? If I, as a writer, can take a step back from what I’m writing to ask what its point is, I’ll focus myself with that much intention and what I’m trying to say will come through that much more clearly.
The next two questions I want you to consider tie into each other a little bit. Who are you writing for and are you the right person to write this? We like to think that we write primarily for ourselves and that we are always the best person to write on a certain topic because we were the ones who came up with the idea, but that isn’t always the case. Whether you’re trying to appeal to a creative writing professor who is partial to a specific style or a literary journal who prefers brief poems when you find it easier to write a whole page, writers have to be flexible in their writing styles. Whether you think it’s “selling out” or not, you can’t submit your romance novel to a literary journal that wants nonfiction and poetry. Just like when you’re packing for a hiking trip, writing is all about balance between your personal comfort and being practical. That’s before even getting into identity politics.
No one is saying you can’t write a story where all your characters are white, straight, and cis-gendered, and depending on what and when you are writing about that will make sense (note that speculative fiction can be anything you want to be, so making all your elves slim, high cheek-boned, white people just because that’s how Tolkien did it is lazy thinking. Same with making all your dwarves vaguely Scottish or alien species humanoid), but be prepared to be questioned about these choices by your publisher or audience. It’s equally great if you want to create more diverse casts for your story or write a spoken word poem dismantling systemic racism, but be prepared to put extra research in on topics and themes you’re less familiar with, as you would when you’re researching anything historic or scientific. If may be worth seeking out a diverse group of beta-readers (people who read your work before it’s published to offer suggestions/improvements, typically without getting paid) as your resources dictate. While you certainly have the freedom to write on any topic in any way you please, it’s important to note that your audience also has the freedom to critique and review your work in any way they please as well, which could affect how your future works get interpreted as well. Once you start sharing your work at writer workshops, perform them at open mics, or get them published, they are not simply “yours” anymore and it is important to consider the potential impact of your work.
While we like to think all our work is worth sharing with an audience, consider the who, what, when, and where of said audience. If you wrote something originally as a form of therapy, sharing it with a crowd of people who may be deeply affected by you sharing your raw, unadulterated emotions may not be a good idea if you want to leave a good impression on your audience (see: disclosure poetry). If you wrote a poem full of silly sex puns, sharing it to your grandparents may also be unadvised unless they’re very laid back. With that in mind, it’s equally important to consider your writing medium of choice as different mediums attract different crowds. The page poet doesn’t necessarily have to wow an audience with their words in the same way a spoken word artist does. Because a spoken word artist also relies on their performance and may also be competing against other poets, they may feel the urge to write topically and write in such a way that gets their message across without obscure references or turns-of-phrase as most people viewing their work will only get the poet’s moment on stage to digest it. This isn’t to say these different mediums are better or worse than each other, only that they are consumed by their audiences in different ways and you need to take account for that.
Now, the big question that everyone asks: “why do you write?” Some writers might not even have a solid answer in their mind, but it’s something we should all at least personally reflect on. Some people are hobbyists that write for their own pleasure or for therapy and never share any of their work with anyone while others want to reach as wide an audience as possible whether that’s because they want share a message they’re passionate about or get recognition or money through writing. (This is your last chance to get out of jail free. Don’t go into writing or any art form expecting to make big bank. Definitely not at first, possibly not ever.) It’s inevitable that all writers write for themselves at least a little bit, as writing is a solitary task. It’s when you decide to share your writing where you discover where a writer’s values lie. One could go their whole lives writing and never share any of it. Sometimes, witnessing your own work grow and being gratified by that is all some people need. I, however, am not one of those people. It’s not necessarily because I feel I have something to say that could challenge, change, or make people think (though I’d like to think so), maybe I just seek the approval of others for my writing to validate myself. It’s hard to say where anyone’s true intentions lie in creating and sharing an artwork, but in the end, I encourage any hobbyist to dip their toes into the wider world of the artist community. Just imagine, for example, if the Mona Lisa had never been seen by anyone’s eyes but Leonard da Vinci’. Would the world suffer for it? Likely not, but such an iconic work of art is certainly part of our culture and has gone on to inspire many other artists to do their own great works. Do I think any of my writing is a Mona Lisa equivalent? Heck no, but if you’re an artist you have a little bit of a narcissist in you, you have to have at least a little bit of cockiness in yourself to think that your words, skills, and ideas are worth sharing with the world.
With sharing you work with the world, are you doing for the “art” of it or the “love” of it? By that, are you more focused on the prestige that being successful in writing may bring (again, a big, big, BIG shot in the dark my friend), or are you more focused on the task of enjoying writing for its own sake? I think most people can’t answer full one or the other if they have begun to share their work with the world. I’ve managed to get one chapbook of poetry published with a spattering of local appearances and online journals, and I really hope to make writing my career someday (somehow), but it’s important not to be primarily focused on getting published even as you work at your craft every day and put yourself out there with the risk of being rejected. I agree with the idea that we should appreciate technical skill and recognize artist effort, but I disagree with putting art on a pedestal. Technical skill without heart or love for the craft comes off as detached and clinical and writing only from the heart without thought often reads like my fourth grade journal entries we were forced to do at school. If you want your work to come across as detached or a mess of emotions, then you’ve succeeded, but leaning too far into one extreme or the other may leave readers alienated.
This pressure to write towards esteem or recognition can lead to a certain amount of pretension and elitism in the literary world that makes it less accessible to those who may want to learn more about poetry or literature, and I see that as a detriment to these communities growing outside their niches. There often feels as if there is this invisible hierarchy where the Western Canon and other artists as recognized as them are placed above popular works or writers. Franz Kafka is “better” than Stephen King, John Muir “superior” to the guy at the open mic who exclusively writes about trees, but consider who the individuals to determine that are. In the moments where I feel looked down upon because I don’t catch every literary reference, remember every poetry title, or enjoy reading all Governor General Award winners thrown my way, I think about how poetry and storytelling got started: within the oral tradition. I think about Homer’s Odyssey, folktales, mythology, and legends that were passed mouth-to-mouth, educating and bringing community together, not putting up walls. I understand the want to create an exclusive group in poetry; it makes someone feel good to belong to something unique and special, but telling people they “just don’t get it” will not help poetry and literature grow as a medium. Despite the length of this essay, perhaps the most important question to ask yourself when going over your own work is to consider what you goals in writing your art is, and focus solely on that. Don’t try to pigeonhole yourself for anyone, and temper your skill with speaking your truth. If an audience is what you want, you have more of a floor than ever before with the internet existing and if you push, you’ll find your own community.
TL;DR? Questions to Ask After Writing Your Own Work
- What is it about?
- Am I able to describe what I’m trying to get across in one sentence?
- Am I focused on my private or public life?
- If focused on my public life, have I researched all facts with credible sources?
- If focused on my private life, have I worked to process the emotions involved with an experience so that I can purposefully use them?
- Am I trying to reach the widest audience possible or focus on the specific?
- What is the point?
- Who are you writing for?
- Have I done research on the publisher I’m submitting my work to? Does my work fit what they’re looking for?
- Am I writing this in a way that appeases both myself and who I may be sharing my work with?
- Have I found the right medium for my work?
- Am I the person to write this?
- Do I have lived experience on the topic I am writing about or have I put in significant research/read works by authors with lived experience?
- Have I genuinely taken into account second opinions on my work from people outside my personal bubble?
- Why am I writing?
- Was the work I’m writing for me personally or am I trying to reach a wide audience?
- Am I looking to get a message across or am I looking for some kind of recognition?
- Am I satisfied with keeping my work to myself or do I want more?
- Is what I have worth sharing with others? (Generally the answer is yes.)
- Have I tempered my emotions with my technical skill to a desired effect?
- Am I working to be accessible in my writing?
- Why might my work be considered “good” or “bad” by community elitists? Does it matter (unlikely)?
Some Final Editing Tips
- Read aloud. This is perhaps especially important for poetry. Move the words you’ve written over your tongue and see how they fit and flow. Anything that makes you, the person who wrote it, stop and stutter through it probably needs rewriting.
- Read from the bottom to the top. When writing your work, you will become hyper-familiar with it and may find yourself glossing over parts of your work while editing. Start with the last stanza or paragraph in your work (or sentence if it’s particularly short) to look for errors. That way you de-familiarize your words and make them fresh to yourself.
- Run your work through an editing app like Grammarly. While you won’t get all the bells and whistles for free, Grammarly can catch a lot of stuff you might have missed through your run-of-the-mill word processer or by eye.
- Ask a friend to listen or read your work. Sometimes this is easier said than done, especially if you make a habit of pestering friends and family for their opinion (as I frequently do), but having an extra set of ears happy to invest time into a passion you love is one of the most valuable things a writer can have. Just be patient with them.
- Join a writing group. As mentioned above with “While Talking to Other Writers,” whether the people looking over your work are friends or strangers, having like-minded people interested in bettering their own craft will take your own writing to the next level.