Putting together a collection of poetry, or short stories, or paintings, or photographs (making an assumption on the latter two, not being a visual artist) is difficult precisely because it requires knowing when a particular piece is done. With the written word aspects, there is the world of endless revision. Word choices, sentence structures. Period or comma? Constantly second-guessing the work all the while attempting to bring forth the best version of the idea of which you are capable. These are not simple tasks. Again assuming here, I suppose visual artists go through something similar—just a touch more color there, another stroke of the brush here. All of this adds up to the creation of a single piece.
Then when you try to create a collection there are new but similar questions.
Is this piece as good as the rest? Does it fit the theme? Do I want it as the first or thirty-first piece? Hopefully by the time you reach the point where you are assembling a collection for production you’ve already gotten past the anxiety-producing thoughts. If not, likely you’re also wrestling with questions like Who am I to put out a collection of my art? or Will anyone even want to read this? or Am I wasting my time?
I am by no means an expert, nor widely accomplished in these fields. My credentials are two collections of poetry to my name, there are plans for two more—hopefully this year—and a willingness to offer unsolicited advice. Feel free to ignore that advice, it is what worked for me, but your path may be different. I am not trying to convince you that this is the only way to resolve the presented questions, only that it is A way to resolve them.
Let’s tackle the questions in reverse order of presentation. If you are still at the anxiety stage, where you question not if the piece is good but whether you are—stop. If you enjoy what you are doing, it is NOT a waste of time. Enjoyment of how you spend your time is crucial to living well. The act of creating something is a reward and accomplishment in and of itself; anybody else that appreciates (and hopefully purchases a copy) is just a bonus. You are you. You are a unique perspective in all time and space, in all of history or future there has never been nor ever will be a you, except for here and now. Capture your uniqueness and let the world see it. Someone will appreciate and love it. That I can promise you.
Also, never forget that someone actually got a book on different types of poop published and sold in large retail book stores. In a world where that can happen, where a professional editor and a reputable publisher decided that a book on various poos was the thing that the reading public needed, anything is possible.
As for the stylistic questions, they all have the same answer. It’s not. Finished that is. A work of art, of creation is a living thing, always growing, always surprising you with something new. So to get the collection to a state of being done, you just have to decide that it is, in fact, done. Feel free to mentally add “for now”.
I struggled with this for a while before publishing A Year of Thursday Nights. I had the idea that due to the theme of the book being poems I’d written and performed at a year of open mike nights, that I couldn’t change the poems. So I beat myself up over mistakes in grammar, in word choice, in spelling. Okay, the spelling I corrected without thinking too much about it but the other things bugged me. Then I came to realize that poetry is art and art is about expressing an idea or feeling and not necessarily about being exactly correct.
So I guess my advice on when a work is finished boils down to it’s done when you say it’s done. Don’t get too hung up on details. And that brings us to the poem for this post.
One of my best fans introduced me to her daughter the other day. Laurie (the fan, not going to name the minor daughter) and I got to talking about missing the open mike nights due to the pandemic and both being just about ready for this to be over with already. She then offered me a prompt for a poem. Bullies. Her daughter was being bullied at school. The three of us discussed this. The daughter appeared to be embarrassed to be talking about this with a person she just met. Or possibly she was just embarrassed to be the topic of conversation. I don’t really remember being 11 years old and somewhat obviously have no idea what a pre-teen girl is feeling. The point is that I gave her some useless adult-type advice, basically that in 10 years or so, she was going to realize that the bullies had the issues and she didn’t. There may have been a fuck them and their opinion in there as well. Also somewhat unhelpful advice. The first bit stuck with me though and inspired the following poem about bullying. I mean, really, telling someone that in another full lifetime it will seem better is silly.
Ghosts of Wallflowers
4/23/21
Visiting the old halls, they echo, they resound
With the laughter of children, the screams of teens,
And now older steps driving the phantoms into the past
Where they belong, where they live, where they haunt
Where they cannot burst the silences of the shy
The hallowed halls of learning, of yearning, of escape
We disremember what they taught
If we’re lucky, we remember the pleasant times, the smiles, the friends
If not, if luck abandons and lets fate have its rule
We remember the harrowing taunts, the small betrayals, the ends
But we misremember when we call them small
When you are little, these small bumps in the road, tiny molehills, momentary diversions,
Seem as cliffs, as mountains, as endings.
Looking back and telling the young that things get better in time, with age, in ten years or so you will remember all these times as not so large, so important, so impending
Is foolish. When ten years is the totality of your span, another ten is a lifetime, an eternity, an endless wait, a forever away
Wait for change they say. Wait for growth. You’ll see things differently. Things do get better.
It’s hard to believe when things do not seem to change. When time itself is so short. When experience does not extend beyond social trials. And you are always the condemned.
As the rooms pass, recall the echoes of the past: Language Arts—Why are you so ugly? Algebra—Why are you so stupid? Economics—So tall? Gym—So little? Geometry—So smart? Lunch—So fat? History—so skinny?
Move faster down the hall, escape the memories: English—So different? Science—Why do you dress like that? Spanish—Talk like that? Drama—Cry so much? Study Hall—Why are you not like me?
They were not like you. You were not like them. Individually unique, each and all. Like everyone through all ages, all periods, all histories, unappreciated in your time.
Revisit the people in your mind, the ones that made you cry, the ones that made you smile, the ones you made cry, or frown, or chuckle.
Recall the seemingly silly advice you were given, by well meaning teachers, hapless adults, and caring parents
Time heals all wounds, this will pass, you’ll get over it, don’t let what others think affect you, don’t choose a permanent solution to a temporary problem, it’s not really that big of a deal—you’ll see once you’re older.
And other good, true, and solid statements of support that require the benefits of a wider perspective, of more years, of older age that simply isn’t present yet.
None of them could remember what it was like, what it meant, how it felt to be so powerless, so helpless, so young.
They survived the innocent abuse, the mindless cruelty, the unstoppable teasing of youth. They don’t really remember it. They don’t really want to.
It’s shunted away in a dark corner of their mind, because school is the best time of their life. That’s what they were told. So that’s what they repeat. Because they think that helps.
Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. The ghosts in the halls aren’t saying.
Because they can’t. They don’t have voices anymore. Except in tainted memories.
So wander those halls. Wonder about those missing voices. Would a kind word have helped? Could you have made a difference? Is it even possible to lead a lost soul out of the halls of hell school?
I have to hope so. I have to believe so. The people that made it out make me think it so.
So how to rescue the wallflowers before they are plucked, the unique gemstones before they are cracked and shattered, the youths before they become the deaths?
Show the flowers that the rainstorms do end, that they are stronger afterwards, more firmly rooted in themselves.
Polish the gems to a fierce brightness, set them in foundations of supporting steel, and let them ring the world.
Teach the youths, help them to find the bright spots of joy in their lives, to embrace their moments of happiness, give them kind words and thoughts to spread.
Impart the most important of wisdoms—patience, persistence, and perspective.
The ghosts of wallflowers previous cannot be quieted.
They cannot be banished.
They cannot be exorcised.
They cannot be resurrected.
They will remain in the halls of the mind.
Don’t add to their dismal chorus.
Jeremy, A Musing in Several Parts 