ModPo 2013 #69 Emerging From Memory and Fragmentation: On Magee's "Pledge" and "My Angie Dickinson"

Image from brucesmideastsoundbites.blogspot.com.

Angie Dickinson Google Image search results

Read an excerpt from Michael Magee's "Pledge" here.
Read an excerpt from Michael Magee's "My Angie Dickinson" here.
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It was a pleasure to read "Pledge" and the different ways it could be written using homophonic translation. I agree that so much of what we memorize gets taken for granted. Yes, it is committed to memory but no, not really understood. "Pledge" is a call to return to the original text and see it side by side with the scrambled homophonic text to renew what it really stands for.

We saw the term "indivisible" in "In A Restless World Like This Is" by Charles Bernstein used in a different context but also referencing the pledge of allegiance. The pledge of allegiance is a piece of text that has not been changed over centuries and has become both a fundamental text and a text robbed of meaning from repetition.

I appreciate the exercise. I also looked up the equivalent of the pledge of allegiance for the Philippines and I realized that it changed over time. I don't know who changed it and why it needed to be changed at all if it is an essential or fundamental text. Or are we on to something, knowing that language is a living organism? In the future, will there even be a need to memorize anything?

I think (whether memorizing is a good thing or not) that we need to examine the texts that we are socialized to memorize. It is worth doing for the sake of cultivating a thinking (rather than a programmed) mind.
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"My Angie Dickinson" was partly hilarious and partly bewildering. The ingredients: 1) Emily Dickinson's prosody and form (the dashes, the capitalizations, the turns), 2) Angie Dickinson's pop culture content (and thus "hooker," "pornography" and "dialogue" enter the text), 3) Google search - the means of getting the content.

From the work we get surprises like "Orbmaster: creates orbs" and "from fireballs to PB&J." Emily Dickinson transformed into pop culture!

From the video discussion, I saw that this work was an "attempt, with the conceptual mode, to reawaken that surprise and shock, which we've forgotten, when we look at Dickinson's work." While we can read "My Angie Dickinson" on its own, it is a referential text, pointing towards the work of Emily Dickinson. It is an attempt, once more (!) to make something new. It is, at once, a new and derived work as well as an homage to Emily Dickinson.

Coming from a Filipino, 2013 perspective: I am in the middle of a very potent and confused soup. Emily Dickinson (the original) and "My Emily Dickinson" (Howe) and "My Angie Dickinson" (Magee) are all cultural markers in a colonial path. I have a very Western, somehow secondhand, upbringing and education. I am still making sense of how this all plays a part of my continuing education and the way I encounter language. I live in a fragmented world and navigating all these Dickinsons makes me look inward...to find my own fragmented self.

ModPo 2013 Assignment #1: Enlightenment, Better Than Drunkenness, Better Than Sex: On Dickinson's "I taste a liquor never brewed"

Image from gradesaver.com.

I taste a liquor never brewed --
From Tankards scooped in Pearl --
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air -- am I --
And Debauchee of Dew --
Reeling -- thro endless summer days --
From inns of Molten Blue --

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door --
When Butterflies -- renounce their "drams"
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats --
And Saints -- to windows run --
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the -- Sun --

Instructions: 
In your short essay, do a close reading of this poem of 500 words. Use as a model the close readings done in the several filmed discussions of other poems by Dickinson.

Essay:
The first thing I notice about the poem is that it is a ballad: four quatrains make up the poem, it has a ballad meter or the first line is an iambic tetrameter followed by an iambic trimeter and so on, there is also a rhyme scheme of ABCB (with the exception of the first line where Pearl is "forced" to rhyme with Alcohol").

The first stanza deals with the "un-brewed" liquor which is assumed to be precious given that the speaker drinks from it from "Tankards scooped in Pearl." It is also of a certain quality because the speaker compares it to "Alcohol" from the vats upon the Rhine (presumably cities from France, Switzerland and Germany that produce wine and beer or it might be referring to the precious waters of the Rhine itself). From liquid, the metaphor shifts to air ("inebriate of Air --am I--") in the second stanza and then proceeds to dew, presenting a picture of a drunken speaker reeling from "inns of Molten Blue" or the sky.

The third stanza comically identifies bees and butterflies as fellow drinkers of the liquor mentioned in stanza 1, further stating that the speaker can out-drink them when they have given up. The last stanza turns to heaven, making references to angels (seraphs) and saints running to watch the speaker, the "little Tippler," leaning against the sun, completing the picture of the unapologetic drunk rejoicing in her "liquor," supported by no less than the sun, a metaphor for God.

At first, I saw a Dickinson acting in a Whitmanian way: thoroughly enjoying herself, thoroughly enjoying what is there, drinking up everything indiscriminately. It is a delightful look at the speaker "going wild." One way to read it is to refer to the liquor as nature itself. One can "drink" it in without ill effects and one can even say that it provides a real ecstasy to whoever drinks it in. However, viewed from 2013 eyes, nature is not unlimited. It only seems that way but even nature has limits.

Another way to read it is to relate the liquor to art and creativity -- poetry, the possibility that she referred to "I dwell in Possibility." Dickinson draws images from nature and contrasts them the unwholesome activity of getting drunk to something ultimately more sublime. In a boast, the speaker says even angels and saints would want to watch her oblivion. And, as a drunkard would lean upon a wall outside a tavern, the speaker has no less than the sun, than God Himself, to lean upon.

Here, Dickinson is preoccupied with heaven as contrasted to Whitman who celebrates the earth, earthliness, the flesh, what is concrete. In the end, the poem is an invitation to taste the liquor of her particular brand of enlightenment. Her poem takes the form of the ballad to capture a celebratory mood. But even in a light and comic mood, with images of drunken butterflies and bees (come to think of it...these are metaphors for sex!), even with the frame of what could be earthly and lewd, Dickinson is inviting the reader to the opposite of this: to delight in enlightenment. In short, try this, it's better than getting drunk, it's even better than sex!

ModPo 2013 #57 Poet as Witness and Tool of Her Times: On Howe's "My Emily Dickinson"

Image of loaded gun from favim.com. 

Here's the link to an excerpt of Susan Howe's My Emily Dickinson.

Emily Dickinson, "My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -"

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun –
In Corners – till a Day
The Owner passed – identified –
And carried Me away –

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods –
And now We hunt the Doe –
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply –

And do I smile, such cordial light
Open the Valley glow –
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through

And when at Night – Our good Day done –
I guard My Master’s Head –
‘Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow - to have shared –

To foe of His – I’m deadly foe –
None stir the second time –
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye –
Or an emphatic Thumb –

Though I than He – may longer live
He longer must – than I –
For I have but the power to kill,
Without – the power to die -

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This was a powerful one-two-punch of Howe's text and Dickinson's poem that seems to be the unifying theme of Howe's text. 

I liked Howe's feminist observation/ critique of how women (particularly Dickinson and Stein) get passed over by the "Canon." Well, in the case she mentions in her text, "from Harold Blood to Hugh Kenner." Was it a disadvantage for women to be artists? To be leaders? To be anyone "of consequence?" Even today that question is still being asked: for example the concept of "leaning in" (Sheryl Sandberg). If it weren't an issue, it wouldn't still be a hot topic like it is today. "Having it all" is an illusion. And despite that, I will still tell my daughter that she has options even if "mother" is a construct that has already been prepared for her since forever (or since humanity's beginning). 

This conscious questioning of "Who polices questions of grammar, parts of speech, connection, and connotation? Whose order is shut inside the structure of a sentence?" tie in directly to Dickinson's poem. "First I find myself a Slave, next I understand my slavery, finally I rediscover myself at liberty inside the confines of known necessity." This is the progression of gun unpossessed, gun possessed, gun used "speaking on behalf of Him" and then gun becoming conscious of mortality and power (liberty within the confines of known necessity). 

To be in the margins is to be in the perfect place to observe the rules, to be conscious of the rules and, eventually, to have the power to break the rules. Politics is always in flux (as is language, which is a different political arena...but political still!). To be in power is to take the status quo for granted. Emily Dickinson writes from a position of "hesitation" (as described in the text) but writes with great liberty knowing her confines. Not being published was, in fact, a great advantage to Dickinson (though it didn't discourage Stein from achieving what she did in a very public sphere). She had no one to please but herself. And that is why we are left with a text that is ahead of its time. Text that survives the death of any "master" and has such power, such dangerous power, as it resonates through time. 

I interpret "the master" or the "owner" as Dickinson's own time. She has limited agency as a weapon. She is informed, shaped by her times, largely patriarchal. In fact, the idea of hunter and gun is a very male preoccupation. And the use of "he" for hunter and "she" for gun is very sexualized. The irony isn't lost on me. This gun culture persists in America and its increasingly violent history of mass shootings (mostly by disturbed young men) is, I'm sure, not lost on all those reading Dickinson's text.

As Howe puts it: "Gun goes on thinking on the violence done to meaning. Gun watches herself watching." Violence done to meaning! What an amazing couple of lines. The poet will always be "used" by her times, by the material that she constructs. She does not choose what she is born into. But she who speaks "for" her times is a tool that will never die, that will outlast her times. "Kill" of course has the twin of "spare" and any tool that deals with death also deals with life. I also observe that Dickinson never refers to "her life" as playing a part of a victim. The loaded gun is both witness and tool. The tool points the way and shapes the user (even as the user utilizes the tool)...in the same way that the world is a nail for the hammer. The tool, in this instance, is a gun. It's a curious metaphor to use for a poet's life but it is very Dickinsonian to use a loaded metaphor. 

So, thank you to Susan Howe for this vital appreciation of Dickinson both as a woman and a poet, a loaded gun of her times.

ModPo 2013 # 5 On The Dickinsonian, The Whitmanian, and Being Filipino

Stepping into experience

Note: I am currently taking a course on Coursera.org called Modern and Contemporary American Poetry taught by Al Filreis of the University of Pennsylvania. I will be posting my thoughts on the course discussions here.

Wow! First week done. Three Dickinson poems and one (very long) Whitman poem.

It's been an interesting week. I've been really busy and I would go home tired but still willing to read the assigned poem and watch the ensuing videos. I've never had this opportunity to go deeply into the works of particular poets and I love the experience.

I couldn't possibly conclude this week by pitting Whitman against Dickinson. I enjoyed the false binary between Dickinson and Whitman created in the video discussion but I ended up really appreciating the role of both poets in creating the path for future poets.

I have two things that I'm bringing up in this post. One: the enjoyment of poetry and two: writing poetry in English in the Philippines.

On The  Enjoyment of Poetry

I truly enjoyed Dickinson. I enjoyed her brevity and economy. I was annoyed by all the words that began with capital letters and all the confusing dashes. But I did remember writing a poem, way back, where I employed a capital letter for a noun. My teacher might have been just as annoyed. Was I influenced by Dickinson? I'm not sure. I'm an eclectic reader but I didn't really appreciate reading poetry books until after college.

I was particularly struck by "I dwell in Possibility." I realize that it is the kind of poem that I truly enjoy. And I liked the work of figuring out the puzzle of poetry = possibility and prose = the opposite of possibility. I also loved the powerful ending: For Occupation --this--/ The spreading wide my narrow hands/ To gather Paradise --. It reminds me that poetry is a worthwhile endeavor. It requires work,yes, but the work is rewarded with epiphany.

To my dismay, I realized I deplored Whitman. Maybe because his poem was soooo long. I wanted to sleep already. Yes, there was exuberance, yes, there was ecstasy. But at what cost? It was too tiring. As I wrote in another post somewhere: it was like reading a Facebook wall with random content.

But, there was a reward. The last section was priceless. On its own, it would probably the kind of poem that I would enjoy on a normal day. It starts beautifully, powerfully with that "barbaric yawp" and it ends tenderly, intimately with "I stop somewhere waiting for you." Absolutely beautiful.

All in all, I want the poetry I read to be succinct. Does that sound like I am going to be rooting for the imagists? I can't wait to get there.

Writing Poetry in English in The Philippines

Secondly, I am a Filipino writer who writes almost exclusively in English now taking up a course on American poetry. Well, UPenn can hardly be blamed. It's an American University. But on my end, I try to see how I can stretch the experience of this course into my own territory, into my own life. It's good to get into the history of the poetic form in America, after all, colonization did play a role in my own history. The generation of my grandparents were taught American poetry for sure and that affected the generations after. I am heavily influenced by the Western Canon. Some of my favorite poets are actually American: Robert Hass, Jane Hirshfield, Gary Snyder.

I am a conflicted writer because I do long to write in my native language but that opportunity has passed. English is my primary language. I think in English but my experiences are Filipino. Being a writer, I know the power of language. It creates experience and possibility for me just as much as the physical world informs my experience as a human being. Elsewhere, in another poem, I write about appropriating the language to be the medium of my expression as a Filipino. I don't know if I'm only justifying my experience. But it's a reality that I live with.

I once had a very interesting conversation with a friend of mine about the importance of being Filipino in my writing. I told him: "That's part of who I am. I cannot claim to come from elsewhere." And he answered that it was more important to be a human being, perhaps to be a citizen of the world. I took solace from that.

So, that's where I'm going to stand. As I go through this course, I understand that the poetry that I am reading is coming from a canon, coming from a pre-selection from an academic institution, coming from a tradition. But I will choose to look at it as a way to inform my being human, wherever I am and whatever my nationality or ethnicity. Poetry encompasses all of that. And I continue the challenge of writing...from wherever I am.

ModPo 2013 #4 The Payoff of Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

From openlibrary.org

Note: I am currently taking a course on Coursera.org called Modern and Contemporary American Poetry taught by Al Filreis of the University of Pennsylvania. I will be posting my thoughts on the course discussions here.

Before I begin, let me just state that the excerpt below is the payoff for reading Whitman.

An Excerpt from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

52

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Let me confess that I remember reading Walt Whitman in the past but I must have been selectively reading because when confronted with all fifty-two cantos I was about to throw in the towel. Below are some of my written comments while I was attempting to read the poem in one night:

• Grass, grass, everywhere. I can't take it. It's like a Facebook feed. It's overwhelming! There's no structure! (Did I just complain about the lack of structure?)
• Is Whitman taking a jibe at capitalists or was he describing a capitalist? (commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest...spending for vast returns). 
• I can only take so much. Even my daughter fell asleep listening to me! 
• Canto 24: He even says his own name in his own poem! 
• A madman's poem!

Snippets, here and there, saved me from rushing to the end. Canto 31: "I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars." Canto 8: "What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls / restrain'd by decorum." Wow!

Actually, he could have written only canto 52 and I would have been satisfied. It really does blow the mind, though. It takes a revolutionary mind, I guess, a madman of sorts to break convention as he did. Well, I'm glad he did.

In the video discussion, there is a brief mention of the difference between Waltman and Dickinson: democratic, inclusive, sensory vs. complex, difficult, open-ended. For me, there's no contest. There is a place for both in poetry. As for the poetry that I personally prefer, I couldn't write an effusive, 12,756-word poem (that's a novella!) nor could I appreciate a poem of that length in its entirety. I like more distilled works.  Well, that's just me.

ModPo 2013 #2 Truth and Art: On Dickinson's "Tell all the Truth.."

Published by Harcourt. Photo taken from darchwonders.wordpress.com.

Note: I am currently taking a course on Coursera.org called Modern and Contemporary American Poetry taught by Al Filreis of the University of Pennsylvania. I will be posting my thoughts on the course discussions here.

Tell All the Truth But Tell It Slant
by Emily Dickinson

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind—

In The Republic, Plato states that art is imitation. For him, works of art are for entertainment only and, in fact, pose a danger to society. He condemns poetry on gods and heroes as lies "and still further because their lies are not attractive” (Republic, II, p24). I thought about this as I reviewed Dickinson's poem, "Tell all the Truth."

I have to say, here, that I thoroughly enjoyed the video of the close reading. At one point I found myself agreeing that the poem felt like a statement from a politician with the emphasis on the slant vs. telling all the truth.

However, I liked how there was a connection between art and the truth at the end of the discussion. We tell stories to make sense of things... to not go blind. I thought about Life of Pi, this quote in particular: “So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can't prove the question either way, which story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with animals or the story without animals?"

I think this is where I might have to agree with Dickinson: as advice to a poet or an artist or anyone who needs to process the harsh and blinding facts of life. Though, I might be a bit suspicious, especially with the choice of what seem to be facetious elements: success, dazzle, surprise. Well, what is the truth, anyway? There actually only is: what is.

All in all, it was a delight to read Dickinson.

ModPo 2013 #1 To Those Who Are Invited: On Dickinson's "I dwell in Possibility"

From Sony Pictures

Note: I am currently taking a course on Coursera.org called Modern and Contemporary American Poetry taught by Al Filreis of the University of Pennsylvania. I will be posting my thoughts on the course discussions here.

I dwell in Possibility – (466)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –

Reprinted electronically by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Ralph W. Franklin, ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983, 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)

I thoroughly enjoyed the video discussion of "I dwell in Possibility." I've missed this kind of discussion of poetry for a long time.

While I loved the close reading of each line, I particularly liked the emphasis on whether Dickinson was celebrating the "exclusivity" of poetry (and therefore of possibility). Is the persona of the poem implying that the tallness of the chambers, the impregnability of the "house", the doors that need permission for entry....are only for those who engage in-THIS (now I love this word!)- this occupation: the occupation of writing, of reading poetry? Is Paradise only for those who are invited?

How timely, too, that I read the poem in conjunction with watching the film, Elysium. Is the persona saying that the joys of possibility and the everlasting roof  (very similar to the structures of the satellite of Elysium, exclusively made for those who can afford it) are only for those who are invited, for those who do "this" work (those who are privileged to appreciate language...perhaps the same people who are privileged in general)?

Very explosive stuff.

Which brings me to the question: Is possibility restricted? Is there a ticket for possibility?

And here is where I digress. While it is tempting to conclude that Dickinson celebrates exclusivity, elitism, the ivory tower, as Whitman celebrates the least common denominator, I see the nature of possibility not in the domain of exclusivity (a few versus the many) but in the private struggle of any individual.

All are invited. That is possibility. We know it as a truth that any worthwhile thing is achieved with *some* work (hard work, in fact). And where is where I believe Dickinson's persona is coming from. The persona already describes her hands as narrow. She acknowledges this, humbly. And yet, with work (with occupation, *this*), she opens them wide to gather Paradise.

For those who are invited and for those who heed the invitation, Possibility is Paradise. But it is not inherited, it is not a given. It requires the scaling of chambers of Cedar, it requires knocking on the door. It requires occupation. And even with narrow hands, one may gather the numinous. And that, for me, is poetry.

L.I.T.E.R.A.L. #4: What Will Make You Truly Feel That You've Made It As A Writer?

Wow. A book. Does this make me a writer? Truly?

The Questions (from BronzeAge.ph): What will make you truly feel that you’ve made it as a writer? Seeing your byline? Holding the book in your hands? Seeing it climb up the charts? Your first book launch? What will finally get you to tell people that yes, you are a writer?

The Answers: 

All of the above are scenarios that have played in my head. Byline, check (articles in magazines), holding a book my hands, check (self-published two books). Seeing it climb up the charts, not checked (haven't written a bestseller...yet). My first book launch, check (I arranged for the book launch of my self-published books). And yet, I still feel unworthy of the title "writer" sometimes. Actually, the term is "published writer." I technically qualify as a published magazine writer. But because my two books were self-published *and* not bestsellers...I feel like I failed in the arena of "published book writer."

But of course, that type of negative self-talk doesn't help at all.

I'm reading a book on self-publishing right now called APE (Author, Publisher, Entrepreneur) by Guy Kawasaki. And I love the idea that he puts forth: the artisanal publisher. It's about a writer who deeply cares about the writing process that he/she takes care of the book from start to finish. Of course, I didn't heed his advice (I hadn't read the book yet) when I went ahead and self-edited. But it's a great lesson learned. Because of what I learned from APE, I made my two books absolutely FREE on Lulu.com, iBookstore and Nook. Who in heck knows Justine Camacho Tajonera? No one. And why should I expect people to read what I write, anyway? Let's face it: writing is about sharing something that means something to the audience reading it. So...if I would write, anyway, without getting paid...I should thank my lucky stars that I have a tool to actually reach an audience. That's why I gave away my books. I want to be read. That's all.

So...to go back to that question....What will make me truly feel that I've made it as a writer? That I've been read. A writer's lifeblood is to have shared something valuable to others. Truly...that's what it boils down to. At least for me. Will I make a living from it? Maybe not. But I dearly wish it would help pay the bills too. Did Emily Dickinson make a living out of her poetry? Heck no. But is she a writer? No one would debate this fact. Point made.

Writing is a passion that cannot be quenched. It's a blessing and a curse. If the muse has called, she cannot help but be answered. Otherwise, the one who heard the call would be tortured by eternal "what ifs." I love Elizabeth Gilbert's fascinating TED talk about the writing process. I love it so much, I'm embedding it below. I like the idea that writers are vessels. For a few moments we are lit up by genius, by the divine and we cannot help but share it. Let not the idea of individual glory fill our heads.

L.I.T.E.R.A.L. #3: Writer Support Groups

L.I.T.E.R.A.L. is a weekly blog meme for authors hosted at Indie Books. We created it to serve as a support group for participants of the Author at Once workshops, but we welcome all writers (from anywhere in the world) who’d like to weigh in on the topics!

The questions:

Who’s part of your support group? Who knows you’re a writer, and has read what you wrote? How much does their opinion matter, and do you write things specifically for them?

The answers:

I'd say my support group would be my family and some of my close friends. People in my circle know that I'm a writer but I wouldn't say all of them have read my work. Or maybe not all of them would be *willing to pay* to read my work. Haha! 

Their opinions matter a lot to me. I mean, if my own family members and friends think that my writing sucks...what would the rest of the world think, right? But that's the thing. Friends and family, more often than not, tend to encourage me and give me positive comments. So, while I love my friends and family, I also take their comments or reviews with a grain of salt. I have to factor in their love for me. 

The people whose opinions really, really matter would come from fellow writers or editors. It's rare that you get these for free, though. But when I do (like in the case of a poet who edited the content of my poetry book), I feel more than privileged, I feel blessed. His generosity was really inspiring. He gave me pointed critique and encouraged me to evoke, to paint with words and not simply make platitudes, conclusions or descriptions. I am forever grateful for this kind of critique. It means more to me than praise. 

I guess you could equate this kind of exchange with that of the salon of the 17th and 18th century. It's a private gathering (or in this age...a private chat) among two or more (but less than ten) writers, artists, philosophers, etc. It is for the honest critique rather than adulation that this is useful to a writer. 

But do I write for my readers? Right now, I don't think I could say that I do...at least for a particular set of readers. I write what I want. Maybe I haven't figured out yet that common ground between myself (and what I want to write about) and the great majority. It is that wonderful intersection between what deeply matters and excites the author and what strikes a deep chord with those who read the author's work. I haven't found that golden mean. But I'm working towards it. Ray Bradbury put it really well: "I want your loves to be multiple. I don’t want you to be a snob about anything. Anything you love, you do it. It’s got to be with a great sense of fun. Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration. You should be having fun with it. Ignore the authors who say ‘Oh, my God, what word? Oh, Jesus Christ…,’ you know. Now, to hell with that. It’s not work. If it’s work, stop and do something else."

Writing is a social thing, though, that's what I try to remember at the end of the day. It's a conversation. If no one is listening, would it be considered writing at all? I remember Emily Dickinson whose body of works was published only after her death. She was writing to someone. Anyone who writes, whether published or not, is participating in a conversation. I write out of my life so that it might spark something in the reader, some recognition, some understanding. I don't have a particular reader in mind. But I do know that my writing springs from my humanity, my common ground with all readers.

Illustration: D'après Abraham Bosse (Français, 1602-1676): Conversation de dames en l'absence de leurs maris: le diner. This painting belongs to the public domain.