I wrote and published a poem on here the other day because I came across a poetry competition online and felt compelled to see how quickly I could write. I enjoy challenging myself intellectually from time to time.
The submission deadline was today, but I missed it because I was out with my family.
Initially I felt a pang of disappointment and guilt for missing the deadline, like I had met myself down after working on the poem. In truth though, I knew that the poem itself wasn’t good enough. On reflection, I think I was just seeking the instant gratification that submitting the poem would have provided.
I enjoy writing poetry, partly because it is quite short and I can devise it quite quickly. But quick doesn’t equate to good, right? Creative writing can’t fulfil its potential on instinct alone?
I read an article/interview recently that described a poet as being someone who lives and breathes poetry – reading and writing it all day long. By this definition, I am not a poet, or even a writer. To be a writer, I must hone my craft; to behold my pen as a violinist beholds their bow and engage it just as much.
Ultimately, if I really want to improve my writing – of any kind, not just my poetry – then I am going to have to put the time in and practise, practise, practise.
So, many more posts to follow then I guess?