In October 2008 I decided to finally start writing. It is a task I had wanted to try all my lifetime and had consistently put off for one reason or another, mostly because, I believe, that I misjudged myself to the task I thought I couldn't do, so that when the day came that I should begin and stop making excuses, it was like a godsend long overdue. And so, I started. Which seems remarkably silly in a fashion, but after waiting a lifetime to write, the concept of "now" being this exact moment to begin, seemed quite surreal to me.
To help me along the way was a Michigan economy that was slowing down so that I found myself, as a self-employed trades worker, fast becoming under-employed (and I must admit, losing interest after 25 years). Added to this was the gradual preoccupation of raising a family, now grown, and becoming more independent from my industry in their lives. Such that, I could begin collecting old notes and earlier poems, created years earlier, and dedicate the fall of 2008 to writing exhaustively every day, from dawn to dusk. I found it to be an intensively creative period in my life, and as I worked, began recapturing moments of lucidity unbelieved. By Christmas Eve, three months later, I had produced 35 poems, with 15-20 more in production, and had also completed a long, reflective, narrative - my pride and joy - of some 20+ pages in final draft and ready to be read by relatives and friends.
And because I had no idea what my writing style would be like - or should be like - I attempted as many different styles in as many different pieces as I could entertain, to discover what felt most comfortable to me, or seemed most mine own. My only thought was that perhaps a collected portfolio of completed works would help me determine my literary voice (of this truth I later would find unhelpful for I rather enjoyed varying my style and forcing my pen to try new adaptations). And yet, the one thing I didn't wish to do, was to copy another poet's style until I first learned mine own. And developed it to be mine own. Then, and then only, would I dare read past literary authors and see if I could learn a little more from the master poets of centuries past.
Consequently, three months later, on Christmas Eve, I had to stop and rest until January's end of the next year, having become completely worn from writing (or thinking) of so many words and phrases swimming around in my head or dancing from my breast. And when I began again I did so at a much reduced pace from the previous months - or so I thought. But my mid-February had created even more original pieces and needed now to stop to take the time to edit earlier productions. By early July I had completed, and re-edited, about 50 poems to date. To this I had added another 40 pieces that were in various stages of arrangement, requiring roughing-out, completion, or finalization, making me happy with my progress thus far, but as burdened within myself at the same time. For there seemed no end. And when reading my finalized pieces (or so I thought) several months later I discovered flaws that I wished to excise out of them. Flaws that interrupted rhythm and flow; that left the main topic and wandered off; that didn't stick to the style I had chosen; or became unworkable in that style and required a completely new style. Flaws (whether true or imagined) that I suppose is to be expected being new to the literary discipline of writing communiques at once personal and intended later for public benefit and engagement.
Curiously, the more I wrote the more I found that I have something to say, which I didn't think was possible to imagine. Literally hundreds of subjects have come to my consciousness making me wish that I had applied my pen and mind more diligently to this task of enlivenment years earlier. Through this time I practiced using a number of different forms and styles, writing both in prose and in lyrical poems; trying various verse and meters; attempting my hand at narrative tales, legends, ballads, homilies and even haiku; and then to short story creation by-and-by. It was my hope that by the following Christmas a hundred pieces could be etched out and reviewed by several friends whom I trusted to independently review these samplings with me. But whether I found a later readership or not, my more humble goal was to continue writing about things that interested me; that I might understand a little of; or could offer a glimpse of insight, profundity, or humor to. And to some small degree I believe I have and have, in the offering, provided some moving poems and stories from out of the emotions of my being and the questions that have stayed long upon my heart and mind.
In many ways I'm an old soul caught out-of-time, living in a new world, who is trying to express long forgotten journeys and neglected thoughts of a lost world past time-and-remembrance. And from these imaginative recitations have been fashioning a postmodern world which is as similarly out-of-sync with today's present society-and-culture as were mine own ancient past comparatively. Thus, making the old new, and the new old, and all things in-between as out-of-step and off-balanced. A very curious development indeed! For myself, I fear my poems may be too belatedly written from the wells of my soul to attempt complete examination in the light of these present days and nights that I have left to me. Moreover, I seem to most enjoying writing of the simple wonders of life around us - no large thoughts per se, or at least no larger than what most people have thought or felt - but insights that could be written about in a way that may produce enlightenment and reflection on the simple things of life that live about us every day and in every way. My initial reviews seem to indicate a modicum of hope for all the hard work I've poured into these tasks while I hope that this undertaking may be as useful to others as it has been to myself. As a novice, with no formal training, and with even less literary application, my desire to write and to share my words, is an avocation I wished I had started years earlier. But I will have to be content with that period of life I am now in, and with the shortness of life I left to me, in my attempts to convey my impressions and knowledge of a world that has perplexed and intrigued me since as a youth. A youth full of curiosities and examinations. One that I hope to someday share with you through spellbound drafts and essays.
R.E. Slater
To help me along the way was a Michigan economy that was slowing down so that I found myself, as a self-employed trades worker, fast becoming under-employed (and I must admit, losing interest after 25 years). Added to this was the gradual preoccupation of raising a family, now grown, and becoming more independent from my industry in their lives. Such that, I could begin collecting old notes and earlier poems, created years earlier, and dedicate the fall of 2008 to writing exhaustively every day, from dawn to dusk. I found it to be an intensively creative period in my life, and as I worked, began recapturing moments of lucidity unbelieved. By Christmas Eve, three months later, I had produced 35 poems, with 15-20 more in production, and had also completed a long, reflective, narrative - my pride and joy - of some 20+ pages in final draft and ready to be read by relatives and friends.
And because I had no idea what my writing style would be like - or should be like - I attempted as many different styles in as many different pieces as I could entertain, to discover what felt most comfortable to me, or seemed most mine own. My only thought was that perhaps a collected portfolio of completed works would help me determine my literary voice (of this truth I later would find unhelpful for I rather enjoyed varying my style and forcing my pen to try new adaptations). And yet, the one thing I didn't wish to do, was to copy another poet's style until I first learned mine own. And developed it to be mine own. Then, and then only, would I dare read past literary authors and see if I could learn a little more from the master poets of centuries past.
Consequently, three months later, on Christmas Eve, I had to stop and rest until January's end of the next year, having become completely worn from writing (or thinking) of so many words and phrases swimming around in my head or dancing from my breast. And when I began again I did so at a much reduced pace from the previous months - or so I thought. But my mid-February had created even more original pieces and needed now to stop to take the time to edit earlier productions. By early July I had completed, and re-edited, about 50 poems to date. To this I had added another 40 pieces that were in various stages of arrangement, requiring roughing-out, completion, or finalization, making me happy with my progress thus far, but as burdened within myself at the same time. For there seemed no end. And when reading my finalized pieces (or so I thought) several months later I discovered flaws that I wished to excise out of them. Flaws that interrupted rhythm and flow; that left the main topic and wandered off; that didn't stick to the style I had chosen; or became unworkable in that style and required a completely new style. Flaws (whether true or imagined) that I suppose is to be expected being new to the literary discipline of writing communiques at once personal and intended later for public benefit and engagement.
C
In many ways I'm an old soul caught out-of-time, living in a new world, who is trying to express long forgotten journeys and neglected thoughts of a lost world past time-and-remembrance. And from these imaginative recitations have been fashioning a postmodern world which is as similarly out-of-sync with today's present society-and-culture as were mine own ancient past comparatively. Thus, making the old new, and the new old, and all things in-between as out-of-step and off-balanced. A very curious development indeed! For myself, I fear my poems may be too belatedly written from the wells of my soul to attempt complete examination in the light of these present days and nights that I have left to me. Moreover, I seem to most enjoying writing of the simple wonders of life around us - no large thoughts per se, or at least no larger than what most people have thought or felt - but insights that could be written about in a way that may produce enlightenment and reflection on the simple things of life that live about us every day and in every way. My initial reviews seem to indicate a modicum of hope for all the hard work I've poured into these tasks while I hope that this undertaking may be as useful to others as it has been to myself. As a novice, with no formal training, and with even less literary application, my desire to write and to share my words, is an avocation I wished I had started years earlier. But I will have to be content with that period of life I am now in, and with the shortness of life I left to me, in my attempts to convey my impressions and knowledge of a world that has perplexed and intrigued me since as a youth. A youth full of curiosities and examinations. One that I hope to someday share with you through spellbound drafts and essays.
R.E. Slater
February 9, 2009
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