I want to admit something: I’ve been caught in an endless desire for acceptance as a writer. It began with seeking positive critique in workshop groups and paying famous poets for feedback. Submitting my work has also stirred intense cravings. As high as I feel when I receive a Yes, inevitably, a crash follows. That can be demoralizing. Not only that, I’ve jonesed for better and better journals and publishers for my fix. Whenever I’m obsessively checking my emails or social media, it’s time for me to refocus on Intention.
When I examine the culture of poetry, I sometimes think poets exist on a spectrum: on one end, those who rarely self-promote and quietly turn out a finely-crafted collection every seven years. On the other, poets who self-published a collection twenty years ago, and have taught high-profile creativity classes and published how-to manuals ever since. In between these poles are poets with an array of accomplishments and varying levels of social media presence. Some write essays like this one. Some teach in MFA programs. Some record and sell craft talks. Some have podcasts. Others offer webinars.
At all spots on that spectrum, poets offer something for someone. I just want to understand where I feel comfortable—and to set my intention accordingly.
For now, my main priority is to dramatize experience, to stand at honesty’s precipice and jump. Then poetry never disappoints and is pleasurable. Even if my poems remain unpublishable, the process is satisfying, leads to greater insights, and sometimes (Hallelujah!) results in “good” poems.
The same is true of the thrill of discovering poems—it’s like finding an absorbed twin. In fact, when I don’t have an engaging book to study, I feel lost. Meeting poets, befriending poets, entering a community of poets is likewise satisfying and provides warm connections.
I don’t want to discount ambition. It moves me, motivates me, and informs me. No one’s pure. Submitting my poems forces me to study journals, to reconnoiter the literary landscape, and to refine my poems to meet the challenge. I think the trick is to be self-aware, to track what the mind is doing, dis-aggregate the information, and explore what feels valuable. For example, my mentors have followed a trajectory to impressive fame. But there are many ways to skin poetry! By remaining in my own intention, I can be both thrilled to see my poet friends achieve, and also study my vocation’s pathways. Why respect one publisher or one way over another? Why not democratize the journey?
This might seem off topic, but bear with me: In my childhood and into my twenties, I struggled with an eating disorder—an addiction really. I felt fat and ugly. But, through therapy and twelve-step programs, I strived to ignore the disparaging voices—if I couldn’t believe I was worthwhile, I could at least act like I did. Moreover, I had to reset my intention—to care for myself in order to be a better person, to be kinder, and more present—and not because I wanted to be hot and skinny.
Writing’s the same: when I started out as a poet (and even now sometimes) my disparaging voice whispered, Hey, Bitch, your poems are ugly! But my better angel said: Honey! Don’t listen! Lace up your corset and get going! I realized my intention should not be to “fix” myself with recognition, not to write “good” poems, but rather to work at feeling poetry’s pleasures, to enter poetry—to resolutely craft the rawness of life—in doing so, I might become more mindful, insightful, empathetic, and content.
Besides, self-disgust—anything I feel—is worth writing about, if I can just detach a little and examine it from a new angle.
One more thing: of course I’m insecure! I’m writing poetry—it’s the opposite of engineering. Everyone knows what engineering is for! But when I say I’m a poet, people ask if I make money at it, or they complain about their high school English teacher (which I also am). Or, if they’re a poet, they might ask what press I publish with, and if it’s not Norton, they’re unimpressed. Even among other poets, reaction to my intense, “confessional” poems can be dismissive.
Yes, self-disgust originates from others—from family, society, and some peers. That’s why overcoming demoralization by honing intention is a radical act. I also think finely crafting our deepest thoughts stimulates the brain’s pleasure centers in a healthy way. The trick is to develop a greater sensitivity to poetry’s mysteries at work in our minds. And finally, I want to share this advice: be your own damn self.
Originally published on Zack Rogow’s fab blog Advice for Writers
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