Proofed

A long, long time ago, I believed that masterpieces were created on the first go. When I wrote the ending of a story, I felt nothing put pride and contentment. It was finished. It was beautiful. The end. It took me awhile (and some brutal workshops) to realize it takes a lot of work to create good writing (so much in fact, that I still have a hard time deciding when something is truly done).

 

One of the things that has stuck with me since my first poetry class last Fall is a quote from William Wordsworth's preface to his book Lyrical Ballads: "...all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings; but...Poems to which any value can be attached, were never produced but by a man (or woman--no need to be sexist, Will) who...had also thought long and deeply" (Lyrical Ballads). Basically, the spontaneous feelings must first be screened and pondered before they make it onto the page if one wants to write a poem that's more than an emo bleeding mascara streaks. We have to edit our feelings in order to make them art.

Although this is true, I do think there is a certain beauty to the rawness of an unfiltered first draft (not just of poetry, but of any writing). In a way, it's the most courageous thing we can can write. It's easy to edit ourselves and make it appear that we've always been this talented, but a first draft is just a bare heart and some word vomit. It doesn't necessarily make sense, but we wanted to say it so we tried. Even if we never share the work with anyone else, it's still a testament to change and growth. It's a story that reflects our past, our old ways of thinking, and our old ways of feeling; and with each new draft it's like visibly watching ourselves grow up and change with each absorbed experience. It makes the final draft just that much more impressive. 

So here's something from way back in the archives. It makes me feel a bit like Taylor Swift, although I didn't capitalize any random letters to spell out the name of the boy who broke my heart. 

Odium

I hate you like

spinach noodle salad,

rubber cement,

and yellow Laffy Taffy.

I hate you like cats,

cooler doors,

over-ripe bananas,

and your stupid car.

I hate you like

pork chops,

scrawny man calves,

and snide comments about slutty catholic school girls.

I hate you like Akon,

Mountain Dew without ice,

ear pimples,

and swallowing gum.

I hate you like

Miley Cyrus,

half-cooked toaster strudels,

and the line tangent to f(x).

I hate you like bulgy arm veins,

Candle wax,

bacon-cheeseburger pizza,

and looking closely at feet.

I want a you like

bubble-wrap,

the smell of coffee,

and belting out Journey.

A you like electric fans,

laughing at horror movies,

cherry slushies,

and knee-high socks.

A you like

coconut and lime hand lotion,

long-sleeved t-shirts,

and vanilla lip gloss.

A you like jelly beans,

eating pancakes for dinner,

British accents,

and lightning bugs in a jar.

And you are not you,

and I hate your arm around me

like I never said:

“Go canoodle with your top heavy harlot.

I hope you get herpes.”

Because I did.

And I mean it.

And I hate you like third chances.