Don't Write What You Know
I’ve enjoyed writing for many years. I'm dedicating more time to the craft in my retirement days.
Don’t Write What You Know
Some of this poem is about things of which I know very little. Some of it is kind of about a chunk of deer antler I found on a gravel road one day while I was out riding my bike. I grunted up this steep gravel road late one afternoon in mid-October, and when I reached the top, I looked back over my shoulder and saw the gorgeous sky off to the west. I stopped, laid down my bike and took this picture:
When that was done, and just as I was starting down the other side of the hill, I noticed the tine of a deer antler laying on the road, stopped again, picked it up, shoved it in my jersey pocket. At the time I just thought it would be a neat souvenir, didn’t know anything at all about the fate of shed deer antlers.
That experience, and the homework I did after, are part of this work. But at the end of the day, the whole of this piece was mostly inspired by an article I read recently: “Don’t Write What You Know,” by Bret Anthony Johnston.
Professor Johnston used to head the creative writing department at Harvard, and now he serves at UT Austin as the Director of the Michener Center for Writers. His list of author “don’ts” includes the title of this poem as item number last.
I’m working on taking this piece of Bret’s advice for three reasons:
1) His name prefaces a long list of impressive works, novels, accomplishments and other credentials; because of that he’s worth listening to, in my opinion.
2) He used a cool football metaphor in his article. He’s also worth listening to for that reason, methinks.
3) He said something in the article (which was featured in The Atlantic, by the way) that really hit center of being with me: Writing what you know vs. writing what you don’t know is “the difference between fiction that matters only to those who know the author and fiction that, well, matters.” I have for most of my life allowed only a select group to read my works, mostly family and very close friends. Almost universally, with one notable exception (Thanks, son!), I’ve received “Oh, that’s really good” feedback from this audience. Almost across the board, too, there is some attachment to or knowledge of the subject for this group of readers. What the work conjures, then, is often a kind of rehash of things that have come and gone, a veracity check that’s not hard to pass. I want a way out of that mold.
I’m still learning about this concept, and have noticed that it is implicitly (and sometimes explicitly) mentioned quite often in a book I’m doing now: Creating Fiction: Instruction and Insights from Teachers of the Associated Writing Programs, edited by Julie Checkoway and featuring essays from prominent writers across the US. I say “I’m doing” that book because it has numerous exercises in it at the end of each chapter essay. I’m still working on Exercise One, Chapter One, but I’m making some progress. Interestingly, much of what is needed for me to move forward is to spend time reading works by great writers of the past and present. To that end, I intend to do some reading today.
Meantime, I hope you enjoy this short poem.
Don't Write What You Know
Don’t write what you know
Just let your pen go
On a trip out to sea
Or on an epic journey
To an unknown
Or forgotten
Remote spot in the universe
In the arm
Of the spiral galaxy
Let your pen
Pretend
To spend
A day at an office you’ve never seen
Working with people you’ve never met
Doing a job you know nothing about
But speak confidently
Like you do
With a voice
It’s a choice
We don’t often make
Advice we seldom take
I know nothing about being a farrier
But I can picture a sledge
Violently yet elegantly
And meticulously and accurately
Pounding orange, red-hot steel
Into a newly formed shoe
That sizzles when tongs lower it
Into a cool bucket of water
And I can hear the farrier
Whisper to the horse
As (s)he pets its mane,
Gently lifts its leg
Trims and grooms the hoof
Where the new shoe will
Replace the old
And I’m watching
As each nail is pounded in
Swiftly, around the ‘U’
Carefully, precisely
And the horse doesn’t move
Doesn’t neigh
Doesn’t whinny
And when the work is done
I can see the majestic animal move away
Leave the barn
Circle the corral
Slowly at first
Walk
Then more quickly
Trot
Then all out
Gallop
Round and round
Putting its new Keds
Through the paces
Giving the farrier a thank you
Without words
And the farrier turns
And walks back to the barn
Thinking about bleached sand
On the beach
In Vanuatu
And diving
In blue-green water
So clear
You could open your eyes
Feel the sting
That doesn’t last
And then see
The undersea
For an infinity
Or two
Or for as long as you can hold your breath
And watch life down there
Exist and coexist
And imagine
The way it used to be
Before we
Were here
And then
Grabs another steel bar
Cuts it
And forges it
Into something new
And curved
And rounded
And perfect
To shod an Appaloosa
That might run
Like they used to
When they were wild
And free
Before we
Were here
I found a tine today
On the gravel road it lay
Broken and incomplete
And just like that
My mind was replete
With notions
Of the possible struggles
That ensued
Oh wait
Was this end chewed?
So perhaps it only fell
To the ground
And then was found
By another hungry
Antler-eating mammal
There are quite a few
Who will gnaw
On antlers that are shed
So instead
Of a violent struggle
Maybe the natural course of things
Occurred
I picture a buck
With one antler missing
And one still attached
And then see the trees
Where they are scratched
And rubbed
Bark completely scrubbed
Gone
From the rut
Or the ridding of velvet
And the tree might live
But it also might die
And I look to the sky
And quietly ask why
But there’s no answer
Or not one I can hear
With an ear
So I listen with my heart
That’s a good start
And you’re welcome to join me
To see
If you can hear
The answer I cannot
I’m glad the tine didn’t rot
Or get eaten
And that I found it
If I knew a farrier
I could visit him
And have her hang it
On the wall
Of the barn
Near the window
Where the steam escapes
Evaporates
After it rises
From the hissing bucket
As the glowing, red, newly-formed shoe is lowered in
And the farrier
Pulls it out
And examines the workmanship
With the faintest bit
Of a smile
Sources
"Don't Write What You Know" by Bret Anthony Johnston
Creating Fiction: Instruction and Insights from Teachers of the Associated Writing Programs, edited by Julie Checkoway
Don't Write What You Know
© 2020 greg cain