CHAPTER INTERLUDE VII
Excerpts from the Chief Communicator’s Occasional Log, Confessions of a Bad Poet: How I Become a Writer
I start writing officially at age 9. My first piece is published in 1964 for the occasional newsletter put out by Camp Cedar, a residential camp in the Lake of the Ozarks region of Missouri. After that, I consider myself a Writer. I submit more articles and reports for my camp newsletter and then for my elementary school newspaper. I also submit poetry and songs. I write fairy tales and other fiction.
In 1966, as a 6th -grader, I submit a school song for my elementary school in Bayonne which wins the prize for best new school song, since I wrote both the melody and the lyrics. However, no one besides me ever sings it after the contest is completed. I am disappointed.
I write a poem for an assignment in 9th grade which my English teacher, Mrs. Rice, enters into a statewide poetry contest. I am one of the winners: “Hairy and Hairless” puts argument dialog I hear my brother and father having, about my brother’s long hair and my father’s baldness, into poetry form. This is published in the statewide literary magazine, Missouri’s Youth Writes, in 1969.
My 11th grade Advanced Composition class teacher, Mr. Mangrove, is notorious for giving mostly “Ds” and “Fs” for students' first drafts; with a great deal of pride, I can tell you my first drafts never get below a “B-.” I write an essay, analyzing and critiquing a Henry James’ short story, “Mrs. Medwin,” discussing the game- and card-playing imagery as illustrative of the main theme. It is the only mid-term essay in three classes of honor students to receive an “A.” Mr. Mangrove submits it for publication in the Roanne High School’s literary magazine; it is one of only a handful of nonfiction pieces in the entire magazine in 1971.
I write poetry I keep to myself for many years, occasionally sharing one with a lover or potential lover, a teacher or a friend. I often use my mediocre songs and iffy poetry to lure lovers or compliment someone. Mostly, they stay in my notebooks and journals. I suspect they are either very good or very bad; I do not really want to find out.
I set some to music but I do not write music very well; although I spend over thirteen years in formal piano lessons, sing in choirs and choruses for dozens of years and listen to music almost constantly, I do not learn much about theory or how to do arrangements. I can pick out melodies by ear but the chords and harmonies elude me.
Rewriting lyrics, though, is a family tradition, a kind of “roast” thing that my mom, her sister, my grandmother start; my sisters and our brother and then our children engage in this regularly for family events (birthdays, weddings, bar/bat mitzvahs). We take some songs the person being celebrated would know or like or that we happen to know and like and put anecdotes about the roastee–their foibles and amusing and/or embarrassing habits–into the songs. All in good fun. I am very good at writing this kind of lyric, particularly since the music is already written, already arranged, already great. I also have a talent for matching the roastee to the original song. I'm also good at having the new lyrics match up very closely with the original lyrics, with just the right twists for humor and personal connection to the roastee.
In 1979, I meet a "real" writer and poet for the first time. He's about ten years older than I and has been published. I spend many hours over several days typing up all of my handwritten poetry on my college electric typewriter (pre-word processors, pre-computers) to show my assembled body of work of poetry to this published writer. He reads it over a day or so and then calls me to meet with him. When I get there, I can tell he is not impressed and is looking for ways to let me down gently. He picks out one piece he can say positive things about and I thank him.
I put the sheaf of papers away and swear never to show them to anyone again. At my death, Zephyr can decide what to do with that collection.
I continue to write mostly secret poetry. Sometimes I write and read a poem for a friend’s birthday or wedding. I read original poems at funerals or sing a song of my own lyrics to familiar melodies at rituals of other kinds.
Although not a practicing Jew by the time I am able to decide for myself (about age 6), I like Chanukah. I rewrite the Hebrew lyrics and share them with family, friends and others who hear I have done this. Here they are (sing to the traditional candle-lighting prayer melody):
Now, here we are together,
Remembering to light the candles.
We think of women and men of old,
Working hard, wishing strong:
Visualize miracles.
This song, and not the Hebrew prayer, is sung at every Chanukah celebration I attend starting in 1981. It's the only one my son, Zephyr, knows.
I also write plays, some of which are produced. A children’s play I write is part of a two-play series which I collaborate on with my friend and colleague, Franco Galina. He writes the play (with some input from me) for teens and adults and both plays tour schools in southwestern New Hampshire (where we both are living at that time), southeastern Vermont and northern Massachusetts for 3 months, culminating with public performances that we produce, staged at the local college in the mid-‘80s.
My play is selected to be produced at a major, for-profit, New Hampshire theater in August, 1984. I am proud of this. Excited, also, since my "mom" in the cast can't be there. I take her place and my co-director, Franco, takes my place as the narrator/director. So fun!
I write a play for adults which I produce as a staged reading at the local library in 1985. That goes well and even has some people in the audience I don't already know. However, I get excited about spiritual development classes I am taking and do not pursue further rewrites or productions. That play was based on a heartbreaking affair and the terrible experiences at my first teaching job, so it was more cathartic than literary, anyway.
I write up an interview I conduct with a local therapist, professor and author, an opinion piece about reproductive freedom and another on domestic violence which are published in the local free paper in the mid-‘80s.
I begin to consider myself a more public Writer but since I never make much money, I keep my day jobs.
Also in 1985, I start a musical derived from a children’s short story based on a Norwegian myth. I collaborate on the music (remember, I am bad at writing music) with two of my friends who are professional musicians. We make tapes during the weeks that I am writing the scenes, detailing the staging and planning to continue, but I get sidetracked by my spiritual pursuits and do not finish this musical.
I start and do not finish a young adult novel about two young women discovering their love for one another, in 1989. I write several children’s books which I do not submit for publication, but I share them with my son and some friends’ children. I keep writing songs and poems, mostly for myself. I write many other short stories, short plays, articles, start a few other novels. Some I share with a few people; most I keep to myself.
Sometimes, when I’m writing a song or poem, I “see” or “hear” myself writing it, but the original is somewhat different than the one I’m writing. Sometimes, when I’m writing this book, I first “hear” a chapter in my head, but the one I write is different in some ways. Often, narration for a new section wakes me up, usually at about 1 AM. So, I get up and write for a few hours, do my usual wake-up things at about 3 or 4 AM. Then, I go back to sleep until about 6 or 7. When I’m not employed and our son is older or I live alone, my schedule is mine to make.
In 1991, I sit with a friend who is about to become a lover again after a three-year hiatus. We are sitting at my table, alone in my house (rare, since I live with 5 other people). Although we are not touching, "another pair" of us is. The other pair is kissing; we are talking. The other pair is hugging; we are sitting still. The other pair is talking; we are silent. This shadow pair of us continues to occupy my attention. I say nothing but I write a poem about this other pair and us, side-by-side, showing both versions of reality. It is my second simultaneous, multiverse poem.
The first I
write in 1979, also about me and a lover, about the pair of us who is together and the pair of us who is not. One pair is in the same town, going about our ordinary lives. The other pair is on a camping trip together (my lover goes on a camping trip while I stay home in this version of our timeline). I also write that poem in a side-by-side format, showing what happens and how both versions of us feel in the same time period, how what one of a pair eats the other tastes; what one smells, the other smells, etc.
I continue to write shadow, parallel, alternate versions of many parts of my life, as poems, as journal entries, as dreams, as stories. Until this book, none is compiled into any format.
I write dozens of essays, a master’s thesis, several versions and a final draft of my doctoral dissertation. I write press releases, grant proposals, articles, ‘blogs, webinars, instructions, manuals, reports, evaluations, recommendations, surveys, needs assessments, summaries, goals. I generate text at rates that take some people’s breath away. Many say they are envious.
I never seem to have “writer’s block” or anxiety about writing, some say to me. That is not precisely true, but I am a lot less worried about writing than most people; I just do it, regardless of how I may feel.
I’ll let you judge how bad my poetry is. Here is one shadow poem, from 1990. Read across, then down. Think of every other stanza's being in a facing column, across from the preceding stanza.
INVISIBLE DOUBLE
by Clara Branon
I reach to your cheek,
trailing my fingers
slowly down;
pull you closer,
tilting your chin;
our eyes close
as our breaths mingle
into a long, slow kiss.
In straight-backed chairs
we sit talking
cups clanging on saucers,
fingers toying
with tea strings and spoons;
our laughter rings
between our faces,
smiles enforcing
appropriate distance.
Our knees touch
as we lean in,
sharing the glossy pages
until my arms encircle you;
our breasts push to stiffness;
I lay beneath you,
straining up to be
closer than close.
On the rough-tweed couch
we lounge looking
at glittering jewelry,
reading to ridicule
advice on all topics.
Consulting our horoscopes,
we decide to dismiss
or delight in our fate;
if our fingers brush,
we pull back
and turn the pages
more quickly.
I watch our fingers
and wonder:
do you know
what I do with you
as we talk and read?
Your only clues
lay in questions
unasked.
We turn to hug
before parting;
I close the distance,
eager for our only touching;
drinking in your neck,
I’m drowning in your hair.
The two of us
walk you to your car;
one waves,
the other caresses.
Next time, I think;
I’ll be braver, truer,
Able to give you
More than clues.
If I had the grace to be embarrassed, would you respect me more or less? No matter. I won’t subject you to any more of my poetry, value unstated.
Some of my writing is great; most is just serviceable and could use a good editor. It’s usually grammatically perfect and proofread all right, but, unfortunately, I’m usually the best editor available and I can’t edit myself so well. Any errors in this and the other Volumes in this series are due to that lack of outside editing.
Just thought some readers are interested in the ways a writer gets “born,” like the way a star forms. Here you are: a writautography, an authography? Zephyr likes the second one better (it’s his word, of course)!