My son doesn’t like writing. He’s ok with smart, non-fiction writing, but narratives and even some opinion pieces frustrate him.
He’s a gifted student, so when things don’t come easy, a lot of times he just quits. He used to just sit and stare. Finally, he figured out he can show off by writing about writing.
Recently he was assigned to write a book of poems of different types (concrete, haiku, etc.). He wrote the book of poems…about poems.
He titled it “Meta,” which justifies it…sort of. And an argument can be made that it’s a great exercise in understanding the structure of the poem.
At least he’s writing, right? Well, no. Being a former middle school Communication Arts teacher, I know how obnoxious it can be to read yet another piece of writing about writing. And there comes a point where it really isn’t challenging.
So I’ve forbid him to write about writing next year. But in the middle of our lecture, my husband (also an English major) and I admitted that some of our favorite poems are about poetry. (Moore’s Poetry starts out admitting she hates poetry. How can I not love that?)
Then today I realized… I write about writing. I’m doing it right now.
I’m proud and chagrined at the same time.