Writing is a Process

Writing has always been a sort of release for me. When all else fails, I put pen to paper, or my fingers to the keyboard, and I write. Often, nothing ever really comes of this. Typically, I’ll end up writing something, but then I’ll put it away, only to read it when I come across it at a later time.

This week, I got five free books - hopefully I'll be able to
find time to read them soon.

As I’ve been learning more about the reading and writing process this semester, I’m realizing more than ever that the two go in tandem. I can claim to be a writer, but unless I’m a true reader too, my writing won’t improve. I have to examine the craft of other writers to see how they form language and meaning so that I can improve upon my writing skills.

This is an idea that I know I held a long time ago, but since coming to college, I feel that my more creative writing has fallen to the wayside in favor of more academic writing, such as literary analysis and research papers, which typically don’t offer a whole lot of room for syntactical experimentation.

I’ve learned a great deal about these ideas in my classes this semester, but I also learned a lot by teaching students during field.

During one of the lessons I taught, I asked students to write sonnets. For purposes of the lesson, my coordinating teacher and I only wanted them to focus on the rhyme scheme, so in terms of the structure of sonnets, the meter didn’t matter.

As I walked around the room to help students, I couldn’t help but realize that I wanted to write a sonnet, too. When students were struggling to come up with something to write about, I gave them ideas, which got me thinking about what I would right about if I were in their shoes.

I gave students the option of writing three different types of sonnets: Shakespearian/English, Italian/Petrarchan, and Spenserian. While creating my lesson, I realized that one of the types was more difficult than the other two, so when I got home from field that day, I decided to try writing a Spenserian sonnet, based on rhyme scheme only, since I opted not to follow the meter of a sonnet as well.

            The crisp autumn air stung my lungs as I walked,

            days were shrinking, darkness was creeping in.

            A bittersweet feeling – longing and despair, mocked.

            Seasons leave without a touch of chagrin,

            instead, seem to vanish with a greedy grin.  

            Crunching leaves - brown, orange, red, yellow.

            Colors dropping from the sky, waiting for winter to begin,

            the cold and damp waiting to borrow

            what was once warm and sunny, waiting to grow -

            winter brings swirling winds of snow, cold and dusty.

            With all this talk of nature, I feel like Thoreau,

            thinking of Walden, the winds still spinning, it feels gusty.

            Not long ago, the summer air changed,

            just like every year, it’s all prearranged.

This is my first draft of the sonnet, as I have not changed any of the words since I first wrote it a week ago. At some point, I intend to go back and revise it, as writing is a process of give and take, and change. In the meantime, I’ll leave it be so I can come back later and take a look with fresh eyes…