So, clearly I've been writing a lot less frequently lately. Ironic really when I am now taking two writing classes a week. Interestingly, I believe it is probably one of those classes that has contributed to my recent dearth of writing. I am undertaking a beginners level poetry class and I can't deny that I am struggling with it. I've always written poetry, I used to churn out pages and pages as a teenager, much of which was disposed of in an attempt to put teen angst to bed and move on into adulthood; something which I now regret - the disposing of the work, not the growing up! But this class has me feeling like I'm back in a high school English lesson. I'm confused about the point. It seems to me that as soon as we start to study poetry we lose its very essence. When we over-analyse every word and comma and syllable, do we forget about the raw emotion that birthed the need to write in the first place? I find myself asking why I am writing at all. Am I writing for me or for those who might read what I write - can it be both? And does my reason dictate the form and content of what I write? I hate the idea of writing in a certain way purely to please others, to me, that holds an element of selling out, but then is writing purely to suit myself just being self-indulgent?
Thoughts on a postcard...
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