Both formula fiction and formal poetry employ a template for their construction. In the case of poetry, the template is often very strict. Writing a proper sonnet involves a specific number of lines, each with a set number of syllables, deployed in a strict meter with a specific rhyming scheme. How formulaic can you get?

Formula fiction is usually considered formulaic because of its plot. Certain events are supposed to occur in a certain sequence with certain consequences and a prescribed ending. Hmmm. Sounds a lot like a set of rules for creating a story, kind of like the sonnet has a set of rules for creating poetry.

In both cases, fiction and poetry, the form or the formula is not the point of the writing. Forms and formulae are stages upon which writers work their magic. They are ritualized ways of telling a story or making a poem.

In fact, maybe we should be calling it “ritual fiction” instead. I’m ready if you are.

I’m deep into the research and writing of my newest novel, 2D, and at the same time I’m revising another novel, Art Saves Lives, in preparation for sending it out to agents for consideration. All of which leaves little time for blogging, but I thought I’d wander through some of my old notebooks and throw up a few possibly interesting tidbits.

Here’s a first attempt at a poem, back when I was doing a poem a day:

I’m reminded of my sausage comment of a few days ago. This has one pretty good image, but it’s weighed down with a lot of ordinary phrases. I think when I revised it later I pared it down to just a few lines. My instinct is usually for minimilism. Often, the less you say, the more likely you’re saying something worth saying.

Not that you’d have any trouble finding people around here who will tell you in no uncertain terms that Bigfoot is far from imaginary. I was once acquainted with a man who met Sasquatch twice. His name was Datus. I got to know him just a couple of years before he died. He came to the library often and liked to talk about his encounters in the woods. I always listened to his stories. He was a wild man with a wild soul, and despite his frail health he had the sort of presence that always filled up a room. After he died I missed seeing him and hearing his stories. I wrote a poem, Bigfoot, as a tribute to his spirit.

I myself am not immune to this style. When I rehearse my poems before my own readings, I notice that I do the exact same thing, even when I am completely aware of it. Such an odd experience, to find myself doing something I dislike so much and don’t want to be doing.

Now I’m happy to report that I’ve found at least one poet who has managed to overcome this problem. Kim and I went to hear Mary Oliver in Portland last night. Her first two poems had a hint of the sing song in them, but by the time she got to her third poem she hit her stride and I did not fuzz out for the rest of the hour. Instead I was enchanted by her voice and her imagery, which is the whole point of hearing any poet.

Here are the opening lines of her poem “Wild Geese,” (from Dream Work) which received a long and sustained applause at the reading last night:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.