honestly, I know it's crappy writing. I sent it to my writing teacher as this extracurricular critique and she said there should be more dialogue (and I don't remember if she said, or I just felt this vibe, "DON'T WRITE SO MANY PASSIVE SENTENCES!").
still, also honestly, I love it. maybe it's that 'curse of knowledge' thing (psych, guys. take AP psych, it's the best thing you'll ever do) -- I know what I mean, and I can't separate that from what I actually say, while you just read the words and miss any underlying meaning that my brain supplies for me. the prose is really heavy and dull and awful, though (not to mention some terrible sentence construction, sorry 'bout that). I know I tried way too hard to add these ridiculous layers of meaning, and I laid it on thick. the prose really reflects that, and probably the themes come out and whack you in the face like the B in "suBtle".
I try. I really do.
but back to that "I love it" thing. I do; and when I think about it, that's probably because 1. I love the poem. always have, always will. (if you cut out a few words, you can fit it to the tune of 'shenandoah'. don't ask me how I know.) 2. I developed this woman; she is like me; she is unlike me; she is a part of me. I know her.
this woman is complex. this woman is completely shallow. yet the shallowness is complex.
she liked attention and the idea of a romantic attachment outside of her rank. (remember, I had to read into the poem. in that, I don't think she's quite this bad: it's more of an indifference -- as far as love goes -- towards him, and he realizes, when he dies, she'll be a little sad but it won't affect her that much. oh, poor boy, she'll think "a little sadly," [emph. mine] but more complacently than anything else. in my story I added a lot of stormy emotion that isn't … really … accurate….) she liked that the dude was all, "I love your pilgrim soul and the sorrows of your changing face, yo" but didn't honestly care for him. he's not so brash as to ask that she leave her money/family/status for him, but she considers it and decides, nah, material stuff is more important to me. when he finally realizes, it's this sort of arthur clennam/flora experience: ajskjgjdkjaklf you are NOT what I thought you were. so -- in my story -- he leaves. he says, you're not worth it, and I can't stick around forever. I've got a life.
except that he dies. (don't make me cry.) when she realizes he's totally, irredeemably gone, I think she also sees he was more important to her than she thought and she regrets it; but...
here is the core of what I meant.
even in her regret -- perhaps true sorrow -- over his death, she still selfishly blames him and refuses to see her fault in it. the last clue I threw in there (tried to throw) was her angry half-thought: "why had he not, in those gone, bright days --". why had he not. not "why did I not".
I tried to have a theme of dryness running through: desiccated memories, dusty house, withered woman. the memories come rushing like a torrent of water. (and that is such a cliched phrase it makes me wince.) she's so lacking in love that she's dried out and bitter; she really hates those mountains because they remind her of what she loved about them -- their transience -- and what he loved -- their endurance. they remind her over and over of her true self; what she loves is still the shallow, petty, romantic sighing over "the true best that might have been"… but really couldn't. she didn't love him, she didn't love them, she didn't love anyone but herself. and now she's old. and now she has nothing. and it's her own fault.
I hate this woman. her pettiness, her drama, her short-sighted views and her selfishness. my writing teacher said it would be better with more dialogue; as far as writing goes, yes. but my point in writing it without spoken words (not just to echo the poem, which has only one line possibly spoken) was to emphasize her loneliness. she has no one to speak to; she will remain in quiet misery until the day she dies.
perhaps it's presumption to add so much to yeats's meaning, and he's obviously a better writer than I'll ever be. he conveyed his version of the story in 12 lines. that rhyme. my only excuse is that I LOVE YEATS, so if he's turning over in his grave…I'm sorry! this is just my little tribute to you and the lasting impression your poetry has left on me.
still, also honestly, I love it. maybe it's that 'curse of knowledge' thing (psych, guys. take AP psych, it's the best thing you'll ever do) -- I know what I mean, and I can't separate that from what I actually say, while you just read the words and miss any underlying meaning that my brain supplies for me. the prose is really heavy and dull and awful, though (not to mention some terrible sentence construction, sorry 'bout that). I know I tried way too hard to add these ridiculous layers of meaning, and I laid it on thick. the prose really reflects that, and probably the themes come out and whack you in the face like the B in "suBtle".
I try. I really do.
but back to that "I love it" thing. I do; and when I think about it, that's probably because 1. I love the poem. always have, always will. (if you cut out a few words, you can fit it to the tune of 'shenandoah'. don't ask me how I know.) 2. I developed this woman; she is like me; she is unlike me; she is a part of me. I know her.
this woman is complex. this woman is completely shallow. yet the shallowness is complex.
she liked attention and the idea of a romantic attachment outside of her rank. (remember, I had to read into the poem. in that, I don't think she's quite this bad: it's more of an indifference -- as far as love goes -- towards him, and he realizes, when he dies, she'll be a little sad but it won't affect her that much. oh, poor boy, she'll think "a little sadly," [emph. mine] but more complacently than anything else. in my story I added a lot of stormy emotion that isn't … really … accurate….) she liked that the dude was all, "I love your pilgrim soul and the sorrows of your changing face, yo" but didn't honestly care for him. he's not so brash as to ask that she leave her money/family/status for him, but she considers it and decides, nah, material stuff is more important to me. when he finally realizes, it's this sort of arthur clennam/flora experience: ajskjgjdkjaklf you are NOT what I thought you were. so -- in my story -- he leaves. he says, you're not worth it, and I can't stick around forever. I've got a life.
except that he dies. (don't make me cry.) when she realizes he's totally, irredeemably gone, I think she also sees he was more important to her than she thought and she regrets it; but...
here is the core of what I meant.
even in her regret -- perhaps true sorrow -- over his death, she still selfishly blames him and refuses to see her fault in it. the last clue I threw in there (tried to throw) was her angry half-thought: "why had he not, in those gone, bright days --". why had he not. not "why did I not".
I tried to have a theme of dryness running through: desiccated memories, dusty house, withered woman. the memories come rushing like a torrent of water. (and that is such a cliched phrase it makes me wince.) she's so lacking in love that she's dried out and bitter; she really hates those mountains because they remind her of what she loved about them -- their transience -- and what he loved -- their endurance. they remind her over and over of her true self; what she loves is still the shallow, petty, romantic sighing over "the true best that might have been"… but really couldn't. she didn't love him, she didn't love them, she didn't love anyone but herself. and now she's old. and now she has nothing. and it's her own fault.
I hate this woman. her pettiness, her drama, her short-sighted views and her selfishness. my writing teacher said it would be better with more dialogue; as far as writing goes, yes. but my point in writing it without spoken words (not just to echo the poem, which has only one line possibly spoken) was to emphasize her loneliness. she has no one to speak to; she will remain in quiet misery until the day she dies.
perhaps it's presumption to add so much to yeats's meaning, and he's obviously a better writer than I'll ever be. he conveyed his version of the story in 12 lines. that rhyme. my only excuse is that I LOVE YEATS, so if he's turning over in his grave…I'm sorry! this is just my little tribute to you and the lasting impression your poetry has left on me.
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by all means, leave a comment if you have something to share! please keep your language clean, respectful, and polite.
staying on topic would be nice, too, but I know that can be hard sometimes.