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In this article from 1977, children’s writer and poet Jean Conder Soule explores the question, “How will I know when I’ve written a poem?”

Writer’s Digest, January 1977

By Jean Conder Soule

When I first began to write poetry (more years ago than I would care to mention), one of the questions I asked myself and my teachers was, “How will I know when I’ve written a poem?” I was worried that perhaps my words were, at best, merely poetic prose.

Since then, I’ve written serious poetry and have had some of it published; I’ve dabbled in light verse and humor and have seen many of my couplets and quatrains appear in leading magazines and newspapers. But still, the question haunts me, and I’ll bet it bothers some of you, too: How can I tell when I’ve written something that’s truly a poem? By the way it looks on the typed page? No, not necessarily. By the way the long and the short lines vary in a rhythmic pattern? Perhaps by the natural pauses at the end of the free verse lines? Maybe, but not always.

So, what is it that makes me sure I’ve written poetry and not poetic prose? It’s the diction of the poem. Without the proper use of words, the fresh and the new phrasing of old ideas, and the picturesque metaphors and similes which are fun to create, I don’t have what I can honestly call a poem.

Too many beginning poets can’t express what they want to say within the boundaries of meter and rhyme. It is so easy to be trapped in the cage of these two devices. If you are not careful, your rhymes will sound forced and your meter will limp because you must use only words that fit. You can’t use that lovely three-syllable adjective that you feel is just right—it will throw your meter off. So you have to settle for second best. And you will make inversions in grammar—upsetting the natural order of your sentence—for the sake of your rhyme.

I’m not saying that poets should never rhyme. But I do say that you should begin with unrhymed forms like the Japanese haiku or the tanka until you are comfortable with poetic diction. In the Japanese forms, it is especially important to develop word pictures through imagery, mainly metaphor and simile. The haiku and tanka lend themselves well to this exercise. Their short, syllabic patterns demand that the writer express himself in condensed, precise, effective language. The haiku is like a little telegram that depicts for the reader something momentous that has happened in nature, in the seasons, or in the poet’s own life. It’s excellent for learning to use imagery in modern terms and for avoiding cliches, archaic words, and trite expressions which so often clutter the work of beginning poets.

One of my students once said in defense of her “dated” poem, “Tennyson and Shakespeare, Shelley and Keats used the words I’m using—and surely, what’s good enough for them is good enough for me!” I had a hard time convincing her that she would do far better to use the vernacular—our everyday language. I had to agree that in Shakespeare’s day, his words were not archaic; but today, many of them sound out of place and old-fashioned, making a twentieth-century poem seem oversentimental and outmoded.

Several months ago, I spent three or four sessions with one of my classes on Japanese poetry. Here are some examples of haiku written by my students:

Spider-like the moon

weaves a web of gossamer

to ensnare the stars.

This is her April,

the greening of her life.

May she wear it well!

In brook-fed meadows

buttercups’ uncounted gold

spills from spring’s coffers.

The writer of the first haiku worked long and hard to achieve the desired effect. Her final simile is delightful, and the “gossamer” seems to fit her poem better than any other word.

The second haiku was written about the writer’s daughter, just reaching adolescence. With the image of April, you can almost see her on tiptoe, waiting for whatever life will bring. “Greening” strengthens the image of youth, vibrancy, and spring.

The writer really had a problem with the third poem. She produced at least six versions before she chose “buttercups’ uncounted gold” and “spring’s coffers.” Before that, she had written “blossoming gold” and “marvelous gilt,” neither of which painted the picture she wanted. When she finally hit upon “uncounted,” the whole idea fell into place, for surely buttercups by the thousands do not spill over the ground like gold coins from a money chest. Now her image was correct and complete.

The right word—the right image—is worth more to the poet than an overflowing chest of gold. Fortunately, it’s also easier to come by—though not much easier; it must still combine terseness, truth, and vivid emotion.

If rhyme and archaic language are hampering your search for the right word, then perhaps you should set them aside, and concentrate for the moment on the haiku and tanka. Working within them, you may well gain the skills and regain the childlike sense of wonder that are essential to mastering rhyme—and to writing without thees and thous.

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Through the Looking-Glass, the sequel to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, was first published in 1871; according to Alice Liddell, the young girl who inspired Lewis Carroll to write the Alice books, Through the Looking-Glass had its origins in the tales about the game of chess that Carroll (real name Charles […]

When New York Times contributor Kristin Wong started freelancing, her first client offered her zero dollars for a screenwriting gig and she accepted it. She had to pay her dues, right?

Then a friend who was already a successful freelance writer told her she had to stop accepting low writing rates. Not only for herself, but because she was lowering the bar for writers everywhere.

This caused a shift in Kristin’s mind, and she began to view her writing as a business instead of a hobby. Now she’s a full-time writer, journalist and author — and living proof that you can make money as a freelance writer.

To help others who want to make money from freelancing, Kristin and fellow full-time writer Alex Webb created Come Write With Us, a course that teaches how to break into the writing business.

When I first started freelance writing, it seemed like such a mysterious and exclusive world. I wish I had a roadmap like Come Write With Us to help me navigate the world of professional writing! 

If you want to make money from your writing but don’t know where to start, this course is for you. In this post, I’ll explain what I found most valuable about the course and what to expect when you enroll.

A chance to learn from seasoned freelancers

Both Kristin and Alex are the real deal with the bylines to prove it.

Since transforming from writing hobbyist to working professional, Kristin has written for the New York Times, Glamour magazine and Travel + Leisure. In 2018, she published her first book, “Get Money”, with Hachette Book Group.

Alex works full time as a freelance writer, and he has authored and contributed to books published by National Geographic, the Financial Times Press and Skyhorse.

It takes real work to get published by big publications — but there’s a difference between working harder and working smarter. Come Write With Us teaches you how to work smarter.

Here’s an example. When Alex first started writing articles, he was satisfied to get paid $50 per piece… until he did the math and realized he couldn’t make ends meet that way. Working harder would mean writing more articles for $50, and there are only so many hours in the day. Instead, he focused on working smarter, finding clients who will pay higher rates — $300, $500 and even $650 or more — for an article.

In this course, he teaches how to take that smart approach.

What’s included in the Come Write With Us Course

Come Write With Us is an online course about the media industry and how to make a freelance writing business work in the real world. 

Over nine self-paced modules, you’ll learn how to take your writing from amateur to professional, create a personal brand for your writing, and set rates or negotiate better ones.

The course also includes worksheets, tips and tricks, advice from writers and a Facebook group filled with other students you can share your experience with.

Text-based modules that teach you how to become a freelance writer

While the course includes a few videos, most of the lessons are written material. Here’s a preview of what you’ll learn:

• Schedule time to practice: Improve your writing by practicing. This module teaches you how to make time in your schedule for this discipline.
• Brainstorm epic ideas: Learn strategies for coming up with fresh topics to write about.
• Write like a pro: Take your freelance writing to the next level by learning what editors expect from writers.
• Build your portfolio: If you want bylines, you need a platform and personal brand. This module walks you through how to set up an online writing portfolio.
• Pitch like a pro: Want to see the pitches Kristin and Alex used to pitch the New York Times and National Geographic? They share pitches that worked for them.
• Find work: When you’re just starting out, finding and landing great gigs can be tough. Learn where to find work, with tips for looking beyond the obvious places.
• Set your rates: Learn how to set your prices and how to negotiate higher rates.
• Network with other writers: Practice reaching out to established writers and influencers in the industry in a way that feels good.
• Protect yourself and your business: To help you understand the legal side of your writing business, this module covers taxes, media liability insurance and more.

These modules are packed with content and contain behind-the-scenes examples, writer Q&As, homework assignments and exercises. You’ll need a writer’s notebook and time set aside for completing the assignments. 

If you follow through on all the advice in this course, you’ll have a polished, professional writing clip by the end of the third module and an online writing portfolio by the end of module four.

Bonus material in this writing course

Come Write With Us also includes two bonuses:

• Access to the private Facebook community, where Kristin and Alex post job listings and answer questions.
• The Writer’s Toolkit for Getting Sh*t Done guide, which includes all the resources, tools and strategies they use in their own freelance writing businesses.

Come Write With Us is available on demand and is self-paced, so you can take the course when it works best for you. Most people get through the course in four to six weeks. 

Connect to the Internet to read through the modules, or download homework assignments to print and work on later. Other downloads are available as well, including worksheets, schedules and checklists.

The course is hosted on Teachable, a teaching platform for online courses or coaching businesses. 

Pros and cons of Come Write With Us 

One of the biggest things that stuck out to me about this course is how it’s friendly and inviting. Kristin and Alex really want to help writers make money and they understand all the big emotions we wrestle with.

If you feel like a complete imposter, they get it. If you’re totally insecure, that’s OK. And if you lack confidence or skills, no problem. They’re here for it, and ready to guide you through the process of figuring out how to be a professional writer.

This is a text-heavy course — really wordy. However, the writing is comprehensive and not at all pretentious. If you’re interested in the topic of starting a freelance writing business, it will hold your attention. 

Come Write With Us covers everything from choosing a niche and launching a website to setting rates and pitching. It holds your hand through the entire process and focuses heavily on the emotional hurdles new freelancers are facing. If dealing with your feelings isn’t your thing, this approach could be a turnoff. 

While the modules contain a ton of actionable information and advice, one of the biggest values of the course is the supportive community, as well as access to the instructors.

This course is aimed at people who are completely new to freelancing, people who want to write but lack know-how or people who already work in freelance writing and want to take their business to the next level. Although it teaches the skills needed to run a full-time freelance business, the training can be adapted to suit a part-time writing business or side hustle as well.

While there’s some industry jargon to watch out for, this is a great overview for beginners without being overwhelming. Overall, the lessons are detailed, outlined well and a solid way to get a complete newbie up and running.

The course costs either a one-time payment of $197 or three monthly payments of $72 for lifetime access.

The truth is, you don’t need to take a freelance writing course to have a successful career or earn hundreds of dollars per article. But taking a high-quality course might help you get there faster. 

Come Write With Us doesn’t offer any shortcuts (there aren’t any), but it will help you avoid the pitfalls that make the journey longer or more frustrating than it has to be. With solid advice and business acumen, Kristin and Alex will teach you how to avoid getting scammed, find high-paying gigs and pitch articles editors love. And that will put you in the fast lane on the road to becoming a freelance writer.

This post contains affiliate links. That means if you purchase through our links, you’re supporting The Write Life — and we thank you for that!

Photo via shurkin_son / Shutterstock 

The post Want Bylines in Big-Name Publications? These Freelancers Will Teach You appeared first on The Write Life.

‘Now is the winter of our discontent’: Richard III’s opening speech from Shakespeare’s history play of that name is among the most famous speeches in all of Shakespeare’s work. Memorably spoken by Laurence Olivier in a 1955 film of Richard III – for which Olivier added some extra lines from […]

In this week’s Dispatches from The Secret Library, Dr Oliver Tearle delves into the origins of a famous Shakespeare quotation ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much’ is a phrase people sometimes use in jest, especially the sort of folk who are fond of talking of heading to the nearest […]

Short stories are a complex form, one that author and professor Danielle Evans continues to show herself adept in. The ever-shifting opportunities of short fiction are evident in Evans’s work, from her debut collection Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self to her latest, The Office of Historical Corrections. The titular piece is a novella about a fictional office, the Institute for Public History, where we follow a field agent meant to correct a “contemporary crisis of truth” in America. In “Why Won’t Women Just Say What They Want,” a master manipulator attempts to make amends to the women in his life, though this attempt comes into question. In “Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain” Dori’s awkward invite to an equally awkward bridal shower exposes a bond in grief, and Best American Short Story 2018 entry “Boys Go to Jupiter” reflects the balance and backdrop of Claire’s decisions, her own evasive tendencies and the consequences. Everything is complicated in Historical Corrections, and by unraveling these complications through her characters, voice, and environment, Evans offers commentary on our daily life that isn’t just topical but eternally relevant. 

Danielle Evans and I spoke about her approach to the short story and teaching, the prevalence of questions that abound in her fiction, and how the true story, no matter the length, unveils itself in revision. 

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Jennifer Baker: When I read this collection I thought “Race is definitely part of these stories and there’s so much more that Danielle is presenting that makes me realize how messed up we are as people.” Evasion sticks out to me especially now that we’ve been quarantined with ourselves and haven’t had to look at themselves very deeply before. Were you thinking about those connective threads even though these are all stand-alone pieces?  

Danielle Evans: I think my craft obsession is that gulf between what we think we’re saying and what we’re actually saying, or who we think we are and who we actually are. And that is something I come back to again and again both for context and for characterization. Because I think most possibility for narrative happens in that space. The space between how we feel and what we say, or who we thought we were and who we actually were when we had to make a choice makes narrative surprise possible. It makes writing these characters possible; it makes it possible for these characters to do something you didn’t expect them to do, but still feels in character and doesn’t break the mold of the story. And so a lot of the characterization is in that space, that sense of having sometimes a very self-aware performance that becomes second nature until something kind of calls it into question. (Like a long quarantine, perhaps). And it is related for me to those structural questions, though not exactly didactically determined by them, because I think the more of a sense of double consciousness or external gaze or other people’s expectations you have to navigate the world with, the more conscious you are of the gulf between what you would like to say and what you have to say if you would like to keep your health insurance, or what you’d like to say and what is safe for you to say and what will cause you harm if you say it. 

Because I’m writing Black women most of the time, I’m writing people who are very conscious of the stakes of not seeming in control or not meeting people’s expectations of them. Some of them react to that thinking [those expectations are] about respectability, and some of them react to that by understanding respectability is impossible. 

Jennifer: Related to that question of who we think we are is the story “Boys Go to Jupiter.” A version of it was published in 2017 with The Sewanee Review. I don’t know if you wrote this story post-2016 election or if it kind of formulated over time?

Danielle: Actually, I wrote that story in 2013, and I hung onto it for a while in part because I wasn’t supposed to be writing any short stories. I first got kind of mixed notes [on it], some people were excited about it, but I didn’t really have the energy to do a good revision of it at the time because I was working on this other thing. So, I put it in a drawer. I finished it finished it in… I guess it would’ve been early 2017. 

Because I’m writing Black women most of the time, I’m writing people who are very conscious of the stakes of not seeming in control.

The thing that changed between those early drafts and later drafts was mostly me trying to find a way to get more Aaron on the page. Because it is a story that’s about evasiveness. It is a story about a character who doesn’t want to be accountable or look at her own past or anything that she’s done. It’s a story about, partly out of grief and partly out of privilege, this person whose entire world is evasion and this is one of those things she really didn’t want to look at. And it was like, how could I get the scenes in this story so that Aaron feels like a person, which is important, when she’s not looking at him at this point like a person, or she’s not actually looking at the stakes of the situation or learning from it. All the work I did on it after 2014 was really scene-level work trying to think about how to let the Black characters in the story exist around this person who didn’t want to see them. So that you had the narrator, but you had something putting pressure on her version of the story.

Jennifer: How hard is that for you to figure out? Especially when you are considering the Black characters and not trying to implement a solitary focus of who the narrator is and their journey. You’re also thinking about the secondary and tertiary characters who matter so much to the story.

Danielle:  At one point I said, my third book is going to be a novel that takes place on campus, and I had this idea that there’d be four primary characters who would have their own section and Claire would be one of them. And then when I started writing it felt like a short story to me immediately. It felt like I could do the work in a short story space. In part, I felt like I could do the work because I realized that a lot of what I wanted to do with those other voices was to offset Claire. It’s a story that really belongs to Claire, and in some ways it would be problematic to have other characters come in to say, “oh she’s missing this” instead of inhabiting their own stories, to be secondary characters in her story for the sole sake of saying “oh but she’s wrong about this.”

I also felt there were ways in which [Claire] could obviously be wrong about things or obviously be missing things that I didn’t need to tell the reader. But if the reader wasn’t going to get to the end of the story and think “this is a story about a villain who doesn’t think she’s the villain” then there’s nothing I could’ve written for that reader. And it wasn’t my intention to try. What was important to me was that these characters put some pressure on her narrative by creating space for the omissions, but also feel like they didn’t just exist for that. That they were people off the page beyond what Claire was able to see from her own point of view. Trying to stick that into the story was a challenge because I felt like if I gave too much room to them I’m giving too much credit to Claire, but if I’m not giving enough room to them then they’re just there as footnotes to say “oh this person is unreliable.” I had to find enough room for that confusion to make the narrative go beyond what Claire understands. 

Jennifer: You mention seeing “Boys Go to Jupiter” as a short story and feeling that you could do this in the short form. And that you were attempting to write a novel. When it comes to recognizing form it sounds like you think very analytically. So I’m curious about your process. 

Danielle: I try to write a first draft as quickly as possible and take as much time as I need to revise. Because what I’m trying to figure out in the first draft is where the layers of the story are. 

I think, yes, the short story is a compact thing in some ways. For me, the pleasure of the short story form is to think about where all of the components of the story are coming at once. The story can be focused on a particular moment, but it can also move into the past and future as needed. And often when you get to a part in the story where the past, present, and future come together on the page in some way, that’s when you find out what the story is actually trying to do. And I like that compression, I like that intensity. I don’t think too hard about a first draft at all. But I do immediately on a second read start to ask what are the operating questions of this story, what are the operating intents of this story, and where do they come together on the page? 

I very much dread when somebody asks me to try to answer the question of how to be antiracist.

Jennifer: You said you didn’t intend for it to go where it went and maybe it’s an unanswerable question of how you got there. 

Danielle: There was a big rewrite between the first draft and the second draft. I figured out “oh this is where this is going, okay” and then to retool it to make it match the ending, which did feel like the right ending to me. But I felt like I hadn’t necessarily in the beginning set that up. And so, I wanted it to feel like you didn’t see it coming, but also that the story was unwinding, from the view of this character who feels various layers of guilt or evasion about what’s happened. But yeah, it’s interesting to think about it in the context of antiracist reading. This book was in ARCs late last year and I swear if it hadn’t already been in galleys when we were having the public conversation about Juneteenth, I probably would have changed the scene that references it. I was like, “Oh my god! Everyone is going to think I was trying to immediately write about topical things!” But the book was in galleys, so it was too late, people had already read it. The reference was there to mark that the story was set in some kind of alternate future, where Juneteenth was gentrified, and I just ended up writing about the present. Writing is a long process and in some ways always anticipating the future conversation, but of course you can’t actually predict the future or the exact world or conversation your book will be released into. 

Obviously racism was very much on my mind when I was writing these stories. But I also very much dread when somebody asks me to try to answer the question of how to be antiracist. You never want to be the reasonable negro in someone’s organization and you never want to be the unreasonable negro in someone’s organization. They’re both impossible positions.

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