When I was in the fifth grade, I was crazy about my English teacher Miss Presnell. She has horse hair clogs and played Jethro Tull’s Aqua Lung during class, handing out the lyrics for us to analyze.
Then, in the 12th grade, Myra Fassler. She was probably sixty, had a wardrobe of beige slacks and cardigans. She marched around the room in her crepe sole shoes with a poetry book in her hand. She nearly spit out “Daddy” as she circled the room. You do no do. You do not do.
One night a week, we were invited to her home. Only three of us ever showed. We’d sit around a coffee table that looked like an inverted drum, filled with poetry magazines and thin paperback poetry books. I loved sifting through them, listening to Myra read. When I won $100 for a writing prize at the end of the year, I spent the whole thing on poetry books. I didn’t even save some for a nickel bag.
Who were your teachers? Mentors?
Filed under: Poetry, Writers, Writing | 19 Comments »
Does honesty have to be brutal? How many writers say: be brutally honest. Isn’t honest enough? And what are they really saying? In many cases, I think it’s code for: be gentle. Learning how to be brutally honest and gentle at the same time is the agent’s/editor’s duty. Obviously, some are better at it than others. Of course, I’d like to think I’m good at it, but who knows? You’re better at it with some writers than others. It’s often a matter of clicking, and in the best cases you inspire each other.
Thanks to everyone who read and continued to comment over the holiday. Apparently, some people didn’t think I could stay away, especially our darling A. who wrote, “Yeah, who knew Betsy had such self control?” Not how I envisioned her.” It’s true, self control isn’t my strong suit. My parents always accused me of “not knowing when to stop.” And god knows, I’ve found myself waking up in bushes enough times to know that I had a wee problem putting on the brakes.
Two manuscripts came in last week on stretchers. One needed a heart transplant, the other a new leg. It took hours of surgery, but they are both doing well. People ask if I still edit. I can’t not edit. I think we all read with pencils in our hands. Isn’t that the job?
Let’s get back to tupperware and how it relates to writing. When I studied and wrote poetry, I loved using the forms that most of the other students balked at. I loved writing in quatrains, and sonnets, and my magnum opus, my personal Howl, was a sestina, ” Calories and Other Counts”. What I loved about form was that it forced you to make decisions, it put you in a box, and half the fun was seeing if you could get out. It fit or it didn’t. I’m not saying poetry is easy, but there was a template if you wanted it. Or wanted to break it.
I’ve always been a little turned off by the expression, “finding your voice.” Was it lost? Behind door number three? Stolen by fairies in the night? And yet, we know when writers have one and we know when they don’t. My question is: is it something you can find or is it native. Can you locate it? Alter it? Develop it? Deny it? Can you choose it? Can you eat it? Can you fuck it?
What is it exactly: voice? Is having a voice and writing well the same thing? Can you write well and not have a voice? I think so. That’s a lot of what gets submitted. Is voice writing well + distinction? I think voice is like a stamp, a brand, a thumbprint. Even your physical voice. Is this Betsy? This is she. I know some of the commenters on this blog by their voice.
Is voice an extension of personality? Is it channeled? Marshalled? Arrived at? Discovered? Is it a put on? A fashion show? A daily special? All dressed up with some place to go? Or is it fuel, gas, highly oxygenated blood? Where will it take you? What happens when it goes?
I used to write in the crawl space beneath the stairs when I was 10. I had a diary with a thin gold rule around the edges and a lock that a butterfly could pick. In there I confessed my hatred for my best friend, the ongoing torment from my older sister, my great love of hot dogs. When I think of myself down there, the blanket and pillow I purloined from the guest room, the shadeless lamp, I could really cry. Why did I need that makeshift bunker? What was I so desperate to express and why did I have to hide it?
Betsy Lerner 