The Word-Space Continuum

At brunch today, Letterlady and I were musing over the differences between writing poetry and long prose, the process of writing, and the importance of food and sleep. Her pregnancy has forced us to remember that our bodies are not machines to be abused, but rather delicate vehicles through which our ideas must come if they are ever to reach paper. We both heartily reject the stereotype of the miserable, starving artist who must struggle in order to create. Sorry. What we find we need is time, space, and regular meals. We are more productive when we are well-rested, well-fed and uninterrupted. As romantic as it may be to imagine a chilly garret in Paris, smoking unfiltered cigarettes while wearing a beret, we actually like being warm, full, and capable of taking a deep breath without coughing. We sacrifice enough in the daily grind of our regular lives to want suffering when we are actually free to make art.

Which brings me back to the discussion of poetry vs. prose. I find it liberating, in writing prose, not to have to obsess over every single comma. Whereas in poetry, each choice, be it comma or word, is completely critical to the impact or meaning of the finished piece. That's not to say I don't make choices in prose without any care, of course I do. I find myself listening to the rhythm of the prose as carefully, if not more carefully, than when I write poetry (especially with dialogue, where I want it to sound believable and authentic, as well as clear.)

The difference is more in the rhythm of the writing process, perhaps, than the rhythm of the written product. Prose allows for an almost hypnotic, trance-like state to occur, in which all around me is forgotten and the lives of the characters swing into action at the tips of my fingers. Time is lost, bodily needs are forgotten, and the end result is deeply satisfying, eight single-spaced pages later.

Writing poetry, on the other hand, is more intense, more focused. More like studying a series of cells through a microscope than watching a flock of birds migrating in the sky. It is strong and undiluted, like a bouillon cube, a heightened flavor that shocks the tongue.

Regardless of the form, it is a phenomenon when it occurs. When something on the page takes shape and becomes real, separate from myself, separate from this place, the feeling of satisfaction is tangible, visceral, and makes me want to drive really fast and honk the horn repeatedly. That experience is what I believe is the crux of the creative experience manifested in the human body. I believe it is experienced by artists in every medium, as well as scientists and mathematicians and others who study and explore the mysteries of the universe. It is, ultimately, what may distinguish our species from all the others: not our clever use of tools, but our ability to imagine those tools before they exist.