I have, perhaps foolishly, signed up for a one hour, one to one, poetry surgery at the end of October with an established published poet and creative writing teacher.
“Surgery” conjures up an image of her striding into the room, turning sharply on her black stilettos, and whipping open her briefcase to expose an array of scalpels with which to dissect me while peering harshly at me over her glasses.
Maybe that’s just me.
Seriously, I’ve not done anything like this before. I worry that it will end up being like the opening scenes from Educating Rita and I will be flailing about finding the “right” language to discuss the poetry that she will have read in advance.
It may even be bruising. What I write and how I write it is very personal. Intimate, even. So if we are going to have a meaningful discussion about how to “improve” it that will require a certain amount of vulnerability on my part. I can’t imagine us getting through a whole hour simply talking about adverbs. That’s not how I roll, or write.
This may be the worst idea I have ever had. I hope, like Dr Bryant, she has a bottle of Scotch handy as one or both of us may need it by the end.