Criticism and Nodding Heads

I am used to people cheering what I do. I have a fantastic support system. I have friends, loyal and sweet, that offer encouragement and do nice things for me. My kids think I am beautiful and smart. My husband thinks I am sexy and smart and dangerous. Awesome.

I am used to criticism. Every semester I get a student or two sending me poorly grammared angry emails telling how I am the worst person to ever teach, should be fired, and the fact that they did 8 of the 40 assignments and paid their own tuition is enough for a passing grade! Oh, I get called many colourful though not imaginative names and accused of many trespasses, and I have come to accept it gracefully and respond kindly and firmly.

I have had fall outs with friends and family, so I also know what it is like to have people I care about think poorly of me or what I endeavour to do for my life work (parenting style, is usually the crux here). I am an outlier and I know what observations come with occupying that territory.

No, the criticism I was not prepared for was none of these.

Re-reading the revision notes from the writer's retreat I found a small box with a note suggesting that I work on sentence structure and get a good grammar book.

Ouch.

It hurt deeply because the line drawn from the box to the comment was not to the age old Oxford comma complaint, nor to anything arguable. It was to a long run on sentence with no punctuation at all. That's how I write poetry, most of the time, e.e.cummings style.

The problem with that is that I am not Edward Estlin. My work has been much improved since taking this to heart. Though, many poems are still suited to that, it is more intentional now instead of just free flowing.

My relationship with revision has been tumultuous. My freshman year in college, when asked to revise, I laughed and said that changing what I had written was a betrayal, an adultery to inspiration and muse. I would not so stain her (my muse's) dress with such ink and blood. Oh the dramatic ego of youth! That particular professor got me to agree to at least pay attention to the strength of end words and then let me be.

No one challenged me after that. Until now. That is a blessing.

That is the problem with having a youthful talent though, it is all impressive intuition and no skill. Now, I can laugh at that impish youthful poet, but it is a sad laugh. Sad, because I walked away from something I loved, something I was good at, because I was stuck and could not master the craft.

Now I know that I can never master such a fancy, but that doesn't mean I cannot enjoy it and improve my aim, brush stroke, and swordplay. Feet on the floor, I lunge and tarry daily now. Sure, fencing imaginary windmills is just that, but at the very least I am training.

So now revision is my training ground, an old lover I am getting to know again. Sometimes it is painful and lonely and full of regret, but here I am.

This is my happy. Doesn't really seem like it should be, right? I am happy to be standing in this harsh light, following a dream I thought was lost. No more regrets. Let's do this.