Tell all the Truth but tell it slant–

Emily Dickinson

I am slowly reading through Raymond Carver’s collected poems. Each time I read them I tell myself I’ll get it right. I’ll discover why they intimately resonate inside me and overwhelm me. Then I’ll know how to write like that too. It never happens.

Somebody, I don’t recall who, once said that Carver wrote poetry when he was too lazy to write stories. His poems are stories though.

I’d like blow the whole thing off by considering Carver a certain kind of genius. That would be a ready made excuse for never attempting to be good. However, it seems as though his poems must have cost him a lot to write. He had to dig deep into his soul to find them. If he was a genius, then maybe that is what he was a genius at.

I suppose that is the problem with all my writing. I am not willing to dig through the detritus lurking inside my soul. Hell, I cannot even describe the snow storm howling outside my window making me feel small and unfit. I know. That’s lazy.

Then there is V. I cannot get her off my mind. It’s quite a distraction.

Published in: on February 6, 2008 at 3:02 pm  Leave a Comment  

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