by Jo Scheier Bugay

Questioning a loyalty to poetry

I’ve been writing poetry since I was an anxiety-filled teenager who found that the process, along with suitably introspective song lyrics sung in minor keys with a guitar, helped me channel all those confusing emotions. Most of the time. 

My poems, now published under the pseudonym Patricia Thrushart, are almost always on the shorter side, ranging from an occasional haiku to four or five stanzas. I’ve never asked myself why. There seems to be an organic length that works for my poetic sensibility. Perhaps it is tied to my heartbeat, or breath, my creative attention span, or how far I can run without wheezing. 

There have been exceptions, I must admit. I wrote a poem about the Allegheny River, yet unpublished, which I thought should match its magnificent breadth and rambling length from the spring in Raymond, Pennsylvania, where it begins, to its final glorious merging into the Ohio at the Point in Pittsburgh. That poem went on for several stanzas and remains a rarity.  I am fond of it. 

I’ve also written a narrative poem about Buddha’s son Rahula, which I originally conceived as a stand-alone book, and so there are thousands of words languishing on my laptop as I wonder if I have the emotional energy to finish it or where it is actually going. I do tell myself I will get back to it. Yearly. 

Other than fulfilling the requirements of a creative writing class or two in college, when a short story was eked out of my stubbornly poetic bias, or more recently, when responding to pert prompts by fellow writing group members (you know who you are), I have stayed completely loyal to poetry for my entire life as a writer. 

That is, until now. 

I am writing a book. 

Perhaps that doesn’t surprise you as much as it surprises me. But beyond the shock of finding all my time and creative energy consumed by a long form project, I’ve had to make several adjustments to my process, my expectations and my toolbox. 

Patience

Of course when I write a poem, I live with it, revise it, think on it… but then it’s done. It may only be a week or two before I move on. A long-form project is like a roommate. Or a relationship.  It’s always there. It’s been at least six months since I’ve started this book, and I write in it, or research for it, every day. And I’m months, if not— gasp— a year away from something I’d consider ready for whatever the next step might be.  That is, if I even know when I’m done, or will be able to let go. 

Organization

Poems are easy to organize. Each one stands alone. The file goes in a folder, and there it is. I keep track of what I’ve submitted, and what has been rejected or sometimes accepted. But each poem is a fresh start, a new file, easily managed. A long form book like the one I’m writing, which I will loosely call a sweeping biography of an American family, has footnotes, sources, chapters, themes.  At tens of thousands of words, I have to keep track of threads, repeated information, connections and flow. I only hope that I properly documented a source, or that I can find it again. I am managing images, clippings, and copyrights. It’s massive. 

Even my new laptop, which I actually bought because of this project, warns me when I open the file that it is so large it is degrading the computer’s performance. Luckily all I use the laptop for is my book. (No matter what time I access Google Docs, the file is listed first with the note ‘you’ve opened this frequently at this time’. Even at 3:00 in the morning. I am a little obsessed. )

Confidence

Switching genres may make one a better writer— eventually— but it can play havoc with one’s confidence. There are many times I sit back and ask myself what I’m doing. Is this project worth the time and effort? Is it meaningful? It’s one thing when a single poem goes nowhere, but two years of work? That’s quite an investment to ultimately see fall flat. 

I also worry that it is all I talk about now. Was that a stifled yawn or an eye roll!?  What do you mean you don’t find this historical document I found as fascinating as I do!?

Support

Never has a group of beta readers meant more to me than during this project. I’m passionate about the work— that sustains me.  But it can also blind me. I have a group of wonderful readers who are selflessly investing their time in my project,  simultaneously encouraging me and challenging me. (It helps that wine or lunch is usually involved.) When this gets ‘out there’ it will be the result not just of my passion but of their support. With poetry I’d ask for feedback, of course, but the result was usually ‘tweaking’ the work. A word here, a comma there, a change of title or order perhaps. Don’t get me wrong, this feedback was always valuable, and the result was a better poem. But the scale is different with a long form project. These readers are spending hours reading through chapters. They’re giving me feedback that is far more fundamental to the very core of the project- its structure, impact, and meaning.  They brainstorm with me. I need that support, badly. 

Someday I’ll be back to writing my short poems. I know I’ll miss the purpose and continuity that writing in long form has meant for me. Who knows? The passion for another story just might come along. I’ll try to warn everyone. Actually, I already have an idea….