Haiku: a Review

It's time in this blog, to revisit my views and understanding of haiku.

Back among the first entries, I took exception to what a fellow poet called haiku. At a reading in the autumn of 2008, Brian Bartlett presented poems he referred to as haiku; personally I could not connect and stated that for me these were not “haiku” and gave my reasons. Recently Brian discussed his haiku on his facebook page and I made some response. The exchange led me to review, to revisit my understanding of haiku.

And that's always a good thing. Blindly holding onto your views simply because they are the ones you've always held stunts facets of your personal development. You are not asked to change your beliefs; it is suggested that you examine them in newer light, under other circumstances, or bringing other knowledge into the equation. Granted, this sounds like a philosophical discussion reminiscent of Socrates and his pronunciation on the “unexamined life.” But it works, even in poetry.

So what did I gain from a review? Quite a bit, even though my basic thinking on haiku hasn't changed.


Brian hinted that for him haiku became an exercise in form and language, especially that five - seven - five “syllable” count nonsense. And here we agree. That form so dear to English-speaking teachers and dilettantes neither translates properly from the Japanese script nor does it suit the spirit of English-language haiku. Both Brian and I take exception, but in different ways. I reject the syllables, using the careful selection of words and their multiple connotations to carry the purpose of the poem. Brian, on the other hand, takes the form as such, changing it, worrying it, playing with it but always keeping that form in mind. He turns it, in a way, into a game.

And games have their purpose. Even some of the earlier Japanese masters used the form to make fun, to play word games, to entertain. And much as I prefer to see haiku as an expression of spirituality, as continuing realizations on the way to final enlightenment, I accept that one way toward enlightenment is laughter, through fun and games as well as word play.

So I have been pointed to a vision of haiku different from mine but no less valid. In the same way, somebody referring to the Christian Bible as “great literature” does not take anything away from the faith of believers.

I have learned a little more tolerance. I have learned not to take myself all too seriously. I have experienced a small “enlightenment,” my own little satori.

Paths of Poetry

Recently I was speaking to an acquaintance about some of the fundamentals of poetry, especially if the making and dissemination of poetry had any use in today’s society. Several aspects we agreed on: the value of poetry as cultural and personal expression, and poetry as a philosophic and moral record of time past. Where we disagreed most fundamentally was in the proper function of poetry.

He argued that it was the purpose of the poet especially, as a custodian of language and broker of its many functions, to explore all the possibilities of language, to stretch what and how ideas can be expressed in the forms (or lack of forms), shapes, and other attributes of poetry. Quite vigorously he claimed that, since no one else was pushing the boundaries, the poet must.

In a way I agree with him. I can understand the urge of a poet to experiment with the sounds and colours of language, to find new ways of expressing the old. “To boldly go where no (poet) has gone before.” Certainly the poet should be free to find new ways through the jungle that is language and usage. But.

It is this “but” that I raised that he seemed to disparage; he seemed so wrapped up in his own argument that he could see no other truth. (And truth wears as many faces as there are ways of looking at it.) I offered the argument that the poet also, and perhaps more importantly, has an obligation to preserve the past and to work with it, to expand what has come before prior to rushing into uncharted spaces.
I offered him two analogies, two metaphors if you will. I asked him to consider orchestral music, saying that there were experimental composers doing fine work that finds an audience but that the most popular and still quite valid works were those of years gone by, and those written today in the styles of those times. When he looked confused, I offered him a simpler one. It’s all very well, I told him, to go exploring, to hack new paths through the undergrowth of jungle or forest. Those who feel the need to do so should. But. And here is that “but” again.

Using the land is more than making one’s way through or around obstacles, more than making paths and drawing maps of them. In the age-old tradition of cultivation we plant what we know we can harvest, what we can use. We shape the landscape to our need, whether that need is utilitarian or simply for appreciation of beauty. A garden is a garden, whether laid out in row upon row of vegetables or plot and cluster of flowers and ornamental vegetation. And the path between their beds are as valid as a trail though the densest part of the forest.

I think he finally got what I was trying to say. He became calmer and changed the subject. I certainly hope that he doesn’t think that I believe his efforts to be worthless, I only hope that he can see the importance of tradition and its relationship to what he wants to do. Such are the functions of poetry: different directions, equally valid.

Changing language, I think, has little to do with poetry as such; poetry probably only reflects change. The changes happen in the street, in everyday usage and media adaptations. I will leave him to hack his way through the jungle of undergrowth as he finds it. I will tend my more formal garden, adding a little bit of colour in one place, a different shape in another. And each one of us walks his own path.

Pleasure Through Difficulty

I read somewhere a few months ago an interview with Alberto Manguel, the Canadian writer, editor and anthologist, and marked down a phrase that resonated with me. I may not have it word for word, but he expressed something along the line that “reading is pleasure through difficulty.” What lay behind this thought, if I remember correctly, was the argument that the pleasure we derive from reading comes from a willed and directed action.

Let’s look a little closer at this argument. Much of what brings us pleasure comes from a passive attitude: hearing music in whatever form, viewing painting and sculpture or any of the plastic arts. Theatre and movies are a combination of these two; all we have to do is to put ourselves in their vicinity. The enjoyment of nature, the pleasure of the outdoors, the experience of a different place, the company of family and friends, all fall within these parameters. To enjoy the written word, however, is something completely different.

Reading for pleasure a very deliberate action. It has to be separated from other reading activities such as to gain information, to find explanations or directions, and all the other uses we find to communicate by the written word. To become “literate,” to gain the ability to read and write, takes a lot of work long before any true “pleasure” can come from it. A person who cannot read or write well finds no pleasure in such activity.
Once you have attained a level of skill, you can begin to read material that may have no application to your daily life. Reading for pleasure takes the imagination and applies it to words and concepts, the stories of places and people, or emotional and rational suggestions that move our spirit in a way that makes us feel good about ourselves and our world, that gives us pleasure.

Choice and effort, we see, are the twin foundations of enjoyment through reading. So how does a poet make these choices easier for his intended audience/readership? Remember, unless it is forced upon the reader he will have no reason whatsoever in these times to approach poetry for fun. The poet must make it pleasurable. Any concept hidden in language not familiar to his audience is soon forgotten except for by a few critics and cognoscenti. This seems to point to two things. A poet should make his words and ideas accessible to as many as possible and he should do his best to present them in a memorable way. There are poets I read whose words ring though the depths of me but who bore me when they read for an audience. There are also poets whose poems leave me cold until I can hear their voice echoing inside my mind. And occasionally a miracle happens – the poet who sounds great on the stage and still sings from the page.

Those are the ones I go back to, again and again. They make me feel the pleasure of reading and make me glad I am literate.

And the difficulty of reading is worth all the effort.

Passing It On

The other evening a friend and I were having a discussion about the artist in the community, not the worth and purpose of the artists so much as how they fit into everyday life. He’s a musician and said that the most satisfaction he gets out of public performance is not based in praise or applause but the sense that some of the audience had been “touched.” He explained that it was an awareness of sorts that what he had been doing had let someone reach into himself to find a creative spark; it need not necessarily apply to music but any way of creating something other. The artist’s role in the community, he suggested, was to pass on the knowledge that all have a talent and should display it to the best of our ability. It doesn’t matter what, just that each one create.

I told him I could understand that about musicians and their instruments in a public performance, even actors although they hid their real selves behind a character. A visual artist is exposed through the works hanging in public galleries, film makers etc. in theatres. But how do you make that work with writing, with the literary arts? “You perform words in public,” he replied. “You do readings not to simply advertise yourself and your work, however valid that purpose may be. You have to show that creating is worthwhile, that it is delighting and satisfying.”

I remember once talking of poetry to a small group of eight to ten year old children. I was explaining rhyme and the ways different words can sound not the same but alike. I would give a simple word like “cat” and ask several of the youngsters, one by one, to give me a word that sounds like it, that rhymes with it. They grasped the concept easily enough and I was ready to go on to rhyming phrases and lines when one girl’s face lit up. Unasked she began to speak out many rhymes for different words, with an ecstatic look on her face as if she had discovered something magical. Deep within her the repetition of sounds had lit a spark of joyful creativity. I don’t know if she ever went on to write or use language in other ways. I felt like a master who had just gained an apprentice. The essence of the poet had been passed on.

And then at PoeMagic, his reading/performance series, Klyde Broox touched on the same thing. Talking about the reasoning behind PoeMagic, Klyde spoke of developing a community, a gathering in time and space where poets and spoken word artists could be together and share their creativity, where the more mature artists could fan that spark in those beginning to find a voice. Schools for artist, writing courses, and such only teach basics and methods. Creativity itself can not be taught. It must be developed and the best way to ensure such development in the younger writers is to provide chances for their works to be heard and seen. So it was his intention to form such a venue where all levels of writers of any creed, colour, social status, or whatever may seem to divide us were free to grab the spark and fire up their creativity.

And I agree. Poetry readings should not be simple showcases for one person’s work but reach to build awareness, an awareness that poets can be serious and fun, even seriously funny. I don’t remember ever setting up a reading series just for development of an artistic community but the concept is intriguing. I may be a little too old to take up such a task myself, but I will support to the fullest anyone who can and will.

So if you are just beginning to write, even if not seriously, don’t judge yourself by what publication credits you may achieve. Find a writer or group you admire and write toward their approval. Most are happy to pass on their outlooks and enthusiasm.

Linked Art

Personally I’m not one for “writing exercises,” those little ideas that are supposed to enhance style or make creative juices flow. However, recently a fellow writer approached me and asked me to set him a task; he was bored and wanted to write. He just had no idea what to write about or how to start.

I had recently come into possession of a small book authored by two poets. Rather than separate sections or groupings, each poem was written in response to one of the other’s existing poems. That way, if each had sent the other ten poems the book would end up with forty, twenty originals and twenty responses. There was no specified manner to respond; it could be to the subject, to an image, an emotional or rational response, no restriction.
I have always liked the concept of linking things, works of art especially, together to form something separate and perhaps greater. For a number of years now I have taken part in a local art celebration where poets are asked to respond to a piece of visual art in poetry. The poem and the art it responds to are then displayed together in storefront windows for a week.

I have written in response to paintings, drawings, and such but also to pieces of sculpture. Some of the most challenging work was in response to crafts: glass boxes, a jar, pieces of jewelry, fabric. I find the visceral response to such things more perplexing to explain even in non-poetic concepts. The intriguing thing here is to be able to establish a link, sometimes obvious, sometimes a little obscureThe Japanese have a tradition of renga, linked verse. Over the centuries the format (subject of certain verses, segmentation of the whole, and other “rules”) became strictly observed. I understand that the modern practice, in the last half-century or so, has moved away from that meticulousness and is more open and flowing without losing spirit and purpose. It reminds me of a piece of linked or collaborative art I was involved with in the late 1970s that was called “Peace Renga.” Writers, musicians, and other artists were invited to submit work on the theme of world peace. Many, if not all, were linked together and performed several times in different venues – music was played, prose and poetry read, paintings and photographs projected on a screen for a very moving presentation. I was proud to provide a small part of the whole, to be part of a community declaration in art.

I find that most of my writing is in response to something external rather than having something burning inside demanding expression. My response is a way to better understand, to make sense of the world around me to myself and share that understanding and viewpoint with others. In this way responding to another’s response creates for me a deeper level of seeing, of knowing.But back to my friend with the demand for a writing exercise. I sent him two lines of poetry with no hint as to title or subject matter. I asked him to respond with the same, no more than three lines if he must, linking it to my original as he saw fit with no explanation needed. That was a couple of days ago; he hasn’t replied yet. If it doesn’t get him in a writing mood, at least it has served as subject for my little meditation.

Rewriting: Self-Editing

One of the most valuable lessons I learned early in my writing career was that of setting myself apart from my work and seeing it as someone else might. Perhaps it is strange for a poet to say that an author of fiction talking about his own process first explained this to me. The concepts he expounded rang true, so true that I took the ideas to an older poet who I admired as a mentor. He acknowledged that the poet, perhaps even more so than any other writer, had to edit his work relentlessly and carefully. A poem should be concise and precise, a polished jewel. (At the time he was writing and publishing a lot of haiku, and had the explanations and examples from his own work at hand.)

Certainly, this included mundane things like spelling, punctuation, tense, and all the small irritants that could lower the quality of one’s work. But even more important than this was the use of words, of language.

He taught me many things. He taught me to plan a poem, to start with a definite idea of what I wanted to say and how to say it whether directly or through metaphor or simile. Cut all the words and phrases you don’t need, he would instruct. You don’t have to describe an orange as round. There are no square ones. Don’t get sidetracked by another idea that influences or modifies your original. If necessary, turn that into its own poem. Be aware of the influence of even the smallest word: ‘the’ apple refers to one specific apple; ‘an’ apple refers to any apple the reader may envision. Apple without any article suggests the essence of being apple-like and somewhat unreal.

Poems often try to convey ethereal, unsubstantial matters using concrete and physical images. Remember that it is easier and perhaps more effective to describe a boundary as a wall rather than a force field although it is probably neither. Use words that describe common, everyday experiences (and delete one of those words; ‘common’ and ‘everyday’ are almost identical) to hold the readers/listeners attention so that they too will reach your conclusion with you. Whatever you do, don’t pad your work – be it poem, story, article, resume – because it will ring untrue to a careful reader.

Spelling and grammar speak for themselves. If you don’t spell correctly, the words may not mean what you think; if you have no idea of the order and relationship among words, you can’t control what they do or say. It’s as simple as that.

Always edit; if necessary, rewrite. Very few poems, if any, leap perfect to the page from an imperfect mind.

Poetry Is Dangerous

Since April 21 is Al Purdy Day, I think it appropriate to consider this phrase I heard from Al back in the eighties when he did a reading in Hamilton. I don’t remember the ins and outs of the discussion that led to this remark but it did stick with me, and to such an extent that I had it engraved into a bracelet.

So, poetry is dangerous? Aside from possibly irritating someone bigger and stronger, how can there be anything “dangerous” about playing around with words? Al gives a tongue in cheek glimpse of the dangers in his poem “At the Quinte Hotel” but it can run deeper than a bar brawl.

There is, of course, the physical: when some macho man takes delight in manhandling the wimp poet. That is the least of a poet’s worries. It is the ambiguous influences of poetry on a life that are more dangerous and perhaps not as easily recognized.

Poetry, the making and writing, the publishing and performing – “chasing the Muse” – can become as consuming as an addiction. When all of the poet’s time revolves around poetry, the “normal” aspects of life suffer. Poets may isolate themselves from their family and loved ones. Their circle of friends becomes a collection of only those who deal with poetry. You seldom find a fervent poet who writes “on the side” no matter how good or dedicated they are. And how much good is a life spent scrambling from grant to award and all the stops between?

We poets cannot live by words and poems only. We need to live, to dig our fingers into the soil and cup water in our hands even if metaphorically. To exist otherwise is dangerous. Dangerous to ourselves and how others perceive us but also dangerous for our work, for our mission. If we isolate ourselves from living as others live, how can we experience that life, explain its joys and sorrows, explore its meanings. Isn’t that why we are poets?

So keep a wary eye out for what poetry may be doing to you. We know it’s not easy; when it begins to seem so remember, the muse is cunning and powerful. Or as Al Purdy warned me, “Poetry is dangerous.”

The Fire, The Fire!

A few days ago I picked up second hand an anthology of contemporary African-American poetry published toward the end of the twentieth century titled Catch the Fire!!! It’s interesting and important because it identifies current rap and hip-hop artists as part of the stream of black writers/poets/artists of the U. S.

The book is divided into six segments; each is introduced by a black cultural figure of importance with reflections and encouragements. The overriding theme of the book urges the young poets to be positive and passionate, to catch and spread the fire actively. The editor and many of the younger poets included are wordsmiths, presenters of ideas in the language of their culture and the immediacy of post literary media – black street talk with rap beats, to be performed as spoken word and disseminated as recordings.

The work in this volume lives up to that challenge. It burns with passion. There are poems from some of the well-known and established poets and writers: Amiri Baraka, Nikki Giovanni, Quincy Troupe, and Sonia Sanchez. These establish the immediacy and the tradition. But much of the collection consists of work by younger poets, often rap and slam artists, who try to burn the fire of their performance onto the black and white of the page.

It all shows that there is a tradition of black poetry - revolutionary perhaps, passionate certainly – that flows through American letters. Much of it is, as mentioned before, available only through performances or recordings. And this is where the more established poets come in with advice and direction. They urge the young to write and then look at their work, not simply to consider performance but the writing as literature. To not only listen to their contemporaries but also to read them, study them, find what works and what doesn’t. To delve into the craft of poetry beyond rhyme and rhythm and into simile and metaphor. To read and use everything you can until you’ve worked out something you feel comfortable with, a voice, and a positive attitude you can share. Use poetry to reach outside yourself so it can become part of everyone else.

And with such advice it is easy to see how rap and hip-hop, filtered though the experience of black people’s existence, is real poetry. It may not have the ancient, European forms and cadences but the power and confidence cannot be denied. The fire that exists on the stage is being transferred to the page. And the page will be all the better for it, will not be consumed.

Poet / Storyteller

The other evening I went out to hear Charlie Chiarelli perform. He's an actor, musician, and storyteller who made his name telling stories about his immigrant Sicilian boyhood here in Hamilton. He's no longer working the Canadian-Sicilian bit but was trying out a new direction. I enjoyed it; it suits him.

He is taking stories (plots) from Boccacio's Decameron and using them to tell today's stories. In itself, this is nothing new; Shakespeare too borrowed freely from Boccacio. The surprising thing is that the stories, transposed into today's language and imagery, come across very well. It may be true that, as I've been told, there are only a small number of possible basic plots: the rest is details and embellishments. In Charlie's hands (and mind, and mouth) the embellishments made the stories.

The twist came when our host introduced him as "the poet of the North End" and at first I went "Humphf, a poet? Not likely." But I began thinking. The main function of the bard, the skal, the scop, the poet in the beginning was to remember and tell the stories of the tribe. The storyteller continues that tradition perhaps even more so than the poet.

Now that poetry has given in to self-indulgent introspections and explorations of emotion and experience, who is left to tell us about things, and other people, and far away places? Even the singer/balladeer has become self-involved. The popular media is so skewed that much of it is irrational flim-flam, an entertainment for the masses. So who will tell the story about Jake down the street or what happened to Betty last week? The mantle seems to have been passed to the storyteller, the one who can keep it straight and simple the way the poets and the singers used to.

It's probably a good thing that many of our immigrants come from places and cultures that still honour the storyteller. Without such "new" blood our records of the simple parts of our lives could become as distorted as soap operas. Who will record the true story of Colvin's Brave Stand? Not one song will be recorded, not one poem published. But sometime down the road a storyteller will say, "Once there was ... "

Poets, in a time of unrest and injustice we need to do more than bemoan the times. We need to lead by example; we need to keep and tell the stories of ordinary people.

The "I" of Poetry

Anyone reading or writing poetry should keep in mind that when using the first person singular pronoun "I" the writer is not necessarily speaking for himself or about himself.
Granted, so much of poetry is about personal expression. Poets describing their feelings and reactions to the world around them in imagery and language will most naturally use that pronoun. Sometimes, however, it may begin to interfere; egotistically the poet can become so self centered that his reader/listener begins to feel left out. However impressive the use of language and the skillful use of poetic devices, the poetry loses its audience and thereby becomes redundant, another "blowing in the wind."

A skillful poet will often use a mask. Rather than lay his own persona open before the world, he will create an "other," someone or something he can hold at arm's length. Whether such a character is named or remains nameless doesn't matter. What does matter is the poet's stance: this needs to be said but don't pin it to me as a person. Another way he may do this is by using the second person, "you." Then it becomes necessary for the reader/hearer to decide if he is referencing "me" or "not me." Either way, the poem implies that the self of the poet is not the main thrust of the poem.

And then there is the impersonal "I" where the poet puts himself in the place of a group of voices that includes his own. He may use the imperial plural "we" but more often remains with the first person singular. We are asked to see him as representative, the voice of the voiceless expressing truths held in common. This is the ancient and honoured function of the poet. He is everyone of us, speaking for the tribe, the voice of his people.

A great responsibility, but a great honour.

Poetry Workshop

I just want to express a couple of thoughts on workshops, poetry workshops in particular. You know, those meetings whose main purpose is to provide a forum for a poet to present his work before an audience of his peers, and receive considered feedback rather than instant reaction.

We're not considering closed groups here. Those also have a role to play; they become intimate as the members grow together. This is about open groups, no membership required.

There are several things you should be aware of when participating. Because you approach the group for a stated purpose, to receive critical assistance, don't bring a poem which you don't believe you should change, that you think is so good that you just want to show what you can do. Your friends and peers may well cut it to ribbons to show you how they would improve it. If you don't think a poem needs improvement, don't bring it. The group is not there to heap praise; don't expect it.

Also consider this. Since it is not a closed group but open to anyone expressing an interest, making a presentation to such an audience can be considered a form of publication, especially if hard copies of your work are distributed. You have very little control over what happens to those copies in the hands of your "public."

Just a few things to consider. Remember, when you ask a friend to become a critic he also becomes an antagonist. Usually the frienship remains unharmed.

Judging and Quality

It's the middle of August. This is again the time that I consider the nature and merits of those who judge contests, poetry contests specifically. At the moment, I'm looking at judging from both sides; we are trying to round up a set of judges for the Acorn-Plantos Award for People's Poetry (a book award, nation wide) that I administer, and I've received my allotment of the local secondary school entries for "Power of the Pen" through the public library. On the one hand I have to find suitable judges; on the other, I have to be one.

What do I look for in a judge? First, a good knowledge of the matter she is judging. Just as the criminal judge on the bench must know the law and how it applies, how to measure an accused against a law abiding society, so must a judge of poetry have knowledge of what it is and how the items before him measure against the standards set, in this case the work of Acorn, Purdy, Livesay, Plantos, etc. Second, she should be honest. A corrupt judge is a stain on an ordered society. A judge of anything, be it talent, Olympic sport, poetry, dogs, must put in the time and dedication required. A personal bias is always present, should be expected; but the awareness of that bias should hold the judge to a high standard.

That's a lot to ask of someone; that's a lot to ask of myself. And still, because I accepted the task, to fulfill it I need to hold myself to the same rigorous standard. If perhaps I think a young person's poem is garbage, I need to see it in the light it was written: with what understanding of the craft, as an assignment, a venting of emotion. And then in all fairness I should suggest ways of betterment. That's what it's about in younger years, getting to know if this is or could be your "thing," your means of expression. It took me time to find that, and I have no right to discourage anyone. Remain honest, to yourself and your craft.

Bad Poetry

A heart-to-heart discussion with a friend and fellow "poet" left me thinking about bad poetry, what it is and what causes it. When I met him years ago, his writing held some promise and I encouraged him, showed him the kind of changes to make to his work so that it would be more acceptable and understandable, more catching to the eye and ear. I continued over the years to press him to advance his knowledge of poetry, how it works, how it is structured. Now it seems all my effort was for naught.

He showed me a manuscript he wanted to prepare for publication. Some of the poems he'd sent to me over the years for comment and advice, and I had freely given it. The problem I could so easily see was that he had done nothing with the advice: no rewrite, no structural changes, nothing. The best of the poems he presented we had worked on together twenty years before when I was explaining the basics of writing poetry to him. Since then, nothing had changed; he hadn't moved forward in his knowledge and understanding of poetry.

He said he had a whole file of poetry that he thought wasn't worth much. I asked him how he differentiated between the two. It came out that if someone said they liked it, or approved in any way, he kept it. Otherwise it went into this file. Neither was worked on again.

If only.

If only he could move beyong rhymimg couplets; if only his rhyming couplets had regular rhythms. If only he could get away from "fact" into the realm of simile, of metaphor, of the many nuances of language that is poetry. If only he could begin with a feeling rather than an experience. If only he would read and study others. If only he could be less self-centered and more aware of everything around him, not just the little bits that touch him directly.

I haven't given up on him, not completely. Meanwhile he continues to write bad poetry, and inflict it on others who will say they like it out of pity or ignorance.

There have been bad poets before. I had the dubious honour of exploring the work of Hamilton's William Murray. In the nineteenth century there was James McIntyre of Ingersoll with his poems in praise of cheese. And the Scot William MacGonagall with poems of death and disaster. Poets who could not see or would not recognize their limitations.

And so the tradition continues.

Advice for Writers

Last Friday at the "Power of the Pen" awards for teenage writers, the assembled young authors and wannabes were addressed by Dana Robbins, the current editor of the Hamilton Spectator. In his speech he stressed a number of simple ways to help oneself develop as a writer. They are almost identical with the advice I press on younger poets. He urged them to follow these actions:

Write. No matter what, no matter how good or bad, satifying or not, by putting words down in an order determined by yourself you become a writer. Write fiction, non-fiction, letters, emails. Keep a journal. Blog.

Read. Read anything you can; you are not doing this to learn anything specific, but to keep yourself immersed in the written word. You may want to read in your favourite category, be it poetry, fiction, non-fiction, or other, but be sure to spend just as much time and effort on the others. Read what you don't care for. Read newspapers, tabloid mags, cereal boxes but read. Even the bad stuff. Tell yourself "I can do better than that!" and then do it.

Observe. The world you live in provides the basis for your thoughts and ideas, and therefore your writings. If you close your eyes and mind, you deny yourself much of the life you should be living. Watch people. Watch the intricacies of nature as things grow and change. Observe the details. These will become the subjects and objects of your written sentences.

Robbins presented several more but these were the three most important to my experience. It never hurts to reiterate them.