The Writing Process

Or at least, my writing process. It seems like an opportune moment to discuss something so individual, so subjective, so idiosyncratic I don't feel comfortable putting it in the Introduction to the Sonnet series. There are, I suppose, general rules about how to write, even how to write sonnets specifically, but it is still by and large something that does and must of necessity flow from the individual poet. If I could tell you exactly how to write a sonnet, what words to use and when, what attitude to have towards composition and at what rate to compose, how and when to throttle the Muse, where would your own poetry come in? But nevertheless I will say something here about how it works, for me at least.

I'll start by mentioning that most of the sonnets seen in this blog, the new original ones anyway, are written, as I am now, on my Android phone. This is not to say that I am plugging for the phone or that something about mobile devices makes a sonnet; after all, most sonnets predate that technology. It is to say that my sonnets are fundamentally akin to text messages. This is not solely applicable to the mode of writing; it would hardly be worth mentioning if it were. Rather, it applies equally to the speed in writing and form of construction of the sonnets.

I write my sonnets fast. I've won bets that I could write a metrically correct, thematically coherent sonnet in less than 1 minute (my friends and I make odd bets). I don't usually write that quickly, but it is very rare that a first full draft of a sonnet takes me more than 5 minutes. Honestly, it is usually more like 2 or 3 minutes.

I start almost always with the first line, part of a line, or line and a half, often the first two lines, occasionally the first three. That's just what usually comes; a packet of pentameter popping into my mind. On the occasions when I get three lines in that initial burst, I know from that what sort of sonnet (Italian or English) I have; otherwise, my first mental order of business is to figure that out so my subconscious can start spitting out rhymes for me. When the poem is really flowing, my subconscious is doing most of that work, tossing up the fragments (usually clumps of 6-10 syllables, with a few longer 12 or 14 enjambments sliding thrmselves in) and letting my conscious mind merely vet those suggestions. I know that is the division of labor because when I dislike my first thought a similar size of verse almost always pops up in its place without my having to puzzle over it. These chunks are, as I've said, of fairly standard size, usually just about one line long, give or take a foot or two.

The trick comes when that subconscious flow stops, pauses, or is muddied. This almost always happens at the turn between octave and sestet (in an Italian sonnet) or the end of the last quatrain (in an English sonnet). Often it happens at both lines 8-9 and 12-13, regardless of the type of sonnet actually being written; those seem to be the key points within a 14 line scheme. Sometimes the 14th is the hardest line of all - in fact, this is often true - but that is primarily as a result of a pause that happened at the 12th or 13th line. In these cases, regardless of when they happen, I have to bring my conscious brain to the problem. For this I first try to simply use my own sense of where the poem should go (something that, along with the rhyme scheme, I try to figure out as early as possible, but unlike the rhymes I tend to remain flexible about all the way to the end) and my own vocabulary; when the latter in particular fails, or the words are simply not coming, I tend to use an online rhyming dictionary (rhymezone.com is a favorite).

The greatest difficulty in these moments comes when the line wants to be too long, either because the rhyme word(s) that seem natural are too long or because too much information has to be smashed into too little space. In these cases my first instinct is generally to revise earlier lines, either incorporating that information into them or using them as a vehicle to move syllables upwards. This often results in changing the rhyme words (easiest in the sestet of an Italian sonnet or the couplet of an English one, slightly harder but not too hard in the quatrains of an English sonnet, and fiendish at times in the octave of an Italian). If this fails, which it rarely does, I change the rhyme scheme or change the (treatment of the) theme; or in rare and worse cases, simply make do with a poorer word than I would like. But that is the order of preference I have: change the earlier lines, change the structure, hack the line.

This process usually carries me through the sonnet rather rapidly, as I have mentioned. All these sub-processes are almost simultaneous, except when it gets really bad. Which leaves really only the question of theme, and how themes or topics arise in my sonnets.

I have mentioned that I tend to have a line pop into my head and build the sonnet off of that line; this in turn brings me to the other way my sonnets are like text messages, in that they tend to come off the top of my head rather than after deep analysis and thought. Sometimes this can have negative externalities associated with it, such as when too much of my momentary thinking, feeling, or other associations gets sucked into the sonnet and it ends up either boring everyone else or revealing disturbingly large amounts about where my head was when I wrote it. But generally it is a positive, as the flow of the sonnet is much improved when I am not fighting against my current state of mind to produce it. Wordsworth said in the Preface to Lyrical Ballads that poetry was "emotion recollected in tranquility"; this is somewhat true for me, but it is more the "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" he also references there, and it is neither wholly. Rather, it is the spontaneous overflow of thought itself, rather than feeling. Certainly feelings come into the picture, but my poetry arises out of my conscious mind, even when it is written by my subconscious. I do not tend to write poems after the fact, or when I do they are tinged by the wistfulness of the recollecting present. I will begin to write a poem about the rainstorm falling on my head not in the dry recesses of the welcome house where I find relief and shelter, but in the midst of the defiant tempest.

This I believe should serve as a rather lengthy introduction to my writing process; there is of course more, but I must leave something for future reference and save both my fingers and your eyes more text. I will leave you with a simple thought: I began writing poems with the goal of writing one a day to my sweetheart. I have not maintained that pace, nor (alas for youth) the sweetheart, but I have written somewhere in the vicinity of a thousand sonnets; and I see no end in sight.