A visit with my younger self: 13 September 1988

Take one young would-be writer, full of himself, who has never undergone any sort of creative writing instruction to speak of, let alone workshop with a professor who not only allows abuse in the workshop, but perpetrates some of it himself and you get some seriously hurt feelings.

Well, I’ve undergone the first real criticism of my owkr. Pretty nasty. I need to spend more time developing an ear for iambic pentameter. Also making sure that I can carry my story along with the allegory and form that envelopes it. I do think it would be fun to write a satirical poem about Mezey.

Vanity

Theͯre aŕe aͯmoͯng ús meͯn whͯo wíll ásk
Líttlͯe moͯre thán toͯ háve us bow
At their
Inͯ ouͯr mídst theͯre arͯe mén
Who would like
Soḿetimͯes iͯn círcleͯs ofͯ mén,
Theͯre áriͯse thóse peͯopĺe
Whoͯ dó noͯt néed ouͯr lóve;
Because Instead, they demand it.
Buͯt whíle weͯ wórshiͯp their feet,
Theͯy trámpͯle óveͯr oúrs.
Weͯ alͯl knoͯw that it is wrong,
Soͯ whý do we stand it?

Ugh, my attempts at scansion here are painfully bad. This kid ain’t got no rhythm. Thankfully, the poem in question never advanced beyond these jottings in my notebook nor did it get to workshop. I do feel like I do finally have a better sense of rhythm than I did back then.