More about my second novel

…

Today we are in Bratislava, Slovakia.

John has found Zoe after playing a little cat and mouse in the streets near the hotel. Back at the hotel, they just get back to the room when a member of Worthington’s hit team arrives and comes off second best.

Of course, the rest are stationed at the obvious exits, and it takes some effort to get away.

Even that escape is fraught with danger, but with all the cunning she can muster, Zoe makes sure they get back to Vienna.

With Worthington’s hit team hot on their trail, a diversion at the main railway station helps aid their departure.

By now, two things are certain:

Worthington is behind the latest attempted hit, and they are both in the firing line, and

John had to decide whether or not he wanted a life always looking over his shoulder.

No prizes for guessing his choice!

…

We’re still in Bratislava with Zoe, making a few repairs, having been injured in the getaway from the hotel, where bullets were flying around indiscriminately.

In a nondescript hotel near a railway station, the favourite accommodation for assassins, maybe, there’s enough time for John to get the message that Zoe is not happy with him bringing along a hit squad.

And, they’re on the news, that is to say, they know who it is that’s on the news; the blurry figures are too indistinct for anyone else to identify them. It was disconcerting to be called criminals fleeing the scene of a crime.

Back in London, Sebastian is about to have a set-to with Worthington, who has decided that Sebastian is too close and might compromise his black op, so he’s sending him to Paris.

Here, we learn that Sebastian has both Isobel and Rupert locked in the basement cells, awaiting interrogation, and that Worthington orders him to send them home.

Of course, Sebastian is not going to do anything of the sort.

He knows they know where John is, and by implication, where Zoe is, and wants to know.

In the first edit, I suspect I will have to mention Sebastian ‘arresting’ Rupert and Isobel just to keep continuity, and no unfathomable surprises later on.

More about my second novel

…

Today we are in Bratislava, Slovakia.

John has found Zoe after playing a little cat and mouse in the streets near the hotel. Back at the hotel, they just get back to the room when a member of Worthington’s hit team arrives and comes off second best.

Of course, the rest are stationed at the obvious exits, and it takes some effort to get away.

Even that escape is fraught with danger, but with all the cunning she can muster, Zoe makes sure they get back to Vienna.

With Worthington’s hit team hot on their trail, a diversion at the main railway station helps aid their departure.

By now, two things are certain:

Worthington is behind the latest attempted hit, and they are both in the firing line, and

John had to decide whether or not he wanted a life always looking over his shoulder.

No prizes for guessing his choice!

…

We’re still in Bratislava with Zoe, making a few repairs, having been injured in the getaway from the hotel, where bullets were flying around indiscriminately.

In a nondescript hotel near a railway station, the favourite accommodation for assassins, maybe, there’s enough time for John to get the message that Zoe is not happy with him bringing along a hit squad.

And, they’re on the news, that is to say, they know who it is that’s on the news; the blurry figures are too indistinct for anyone else to identify them. It was disconcerting to be called criminals fleeing the scene of a crime.

Back in London, Sebastian is about to have a set-to with Worthington, who has decided that Sebastian is too close and might compromise his black op, so he’s sending him to Paris.

Here, we learn that Sebastian has both Isobel and Rupert locked in the basement cells, awaiting interrogation, and that Worthington orders him to send them home.

Of course, Sebastian is not going to do anything of the sort.

He knows they know where John is, and by implication, where Zoe is, and wants to know.

In the first edit, I suspect I will have to mention Sebastian ‘arresting’ Rupert and Isobel just to keep continuity, and no unfathomable surprises later on.

Day 51 – The Power of Silence

…

The Power of Silence: Why Saying Less Can Make Your Interviews—and Your Writing—Far More Compelling

“Silence is a source of great strength.” — Lao Tzu

In a world that rewards constant chatter, it’s easy to forget that the most memorable moments often happen when nobody is speaking. Whether you’re sitting across from a subject in a face‑to‑face interview or watching a scene unfold on the page, strategic silence can turn good material into something unforgettable.

In this post, we’ll explore:

1. Why silence works – the psychological and narrative reasons it matters.
2. Interview tactics – how to harness pauses, breathing space, and non‑verbal cues.
3. Writing tricks – letting characters speak for themselves and using “silence” in prose.
4. Common pitfalls – what to avoid when you try to be “quiet”.

Grab a notebook (or a blank document) and let the quiet speak to you.

---

1. The Science Behind the Pause

What Happens When You’re Silent	Why It Helps Your Audience
The brain fills in gaps – humans love pattern‑completion.	Listeners/readers become active participants, constructing meaning in the spaces you leave.
Emotional intensity rises – a pause creates tension.	The audience anticipates what comes next, sharpening focus on the upcoming reveal.
Trust is built – you’re not trying to steer the conversation.	Interviewees feel heard, while readers sense authentic, unmanipulated dialogue.
Memory retention improves – novelty stands out.	Unusual moments (a lingering silence) stick in the mind longer than a flood of words.

In short, silence is not “nothing”; it’s a catalyst that amplifies whatever follows it.

---

2. Interview Techniques: Let the Interviewee Own the Story

a. The “Goldilocks” Pause

• What it is: A deliberate, 2‑5‑second silence right after a question or a key statement.
• Why it works: It gives the interviewee mental space to think, often coaxing deeper, less rehearsed answers.
• How to practice:
  1. Ask a question.
  2. Resist the urge to fill the void with “uh‑uh” or “so…”.
  3. Count silently (1‑2‑3…) and then listen.

Example – Instead of “What made you decide to start the company?” followed immediately by “And how did you fund it?”, try:
“What made you decide to start the company?” (pause) “Take your time.” (pause again) …and you’ll hear the story unfold organically.

b. Mirror the Body Language

• Technique: Nod, maintain an open posture, and let the interviewee see you’re engaged without speaking.
• Result: Non‑verbal affirmation often encourages the interviewee to keep talking, turning a silence into a “safe‑space” signal.

c. Avoid “Filler” Questions

• Bad habit: “Do you like that?” or “Is that right?” after every answer.
• Better approach: Let the previous answer breathe. If you need clarification, phrase it as a reflection: “So you’re saying…?” – then pause.

d. The “Quiet Re‑Ask”

When you need deeper detail, repeat the last few words of the interviewee’s answer, then stay silent.

Interviewee: “We had to scrap the original design.”
You: “Scrap the original design…?” (silence)
Result: The interviewee often fills in the missing “why” or “how”.

---

3. Writing Tricks: Let Your Characters Speak for Themselves

a. Show, Don’t Tell—Through Silence

• Scene: A mother and her teenage son sit across a kitchen table after a heated argument.
• Traditional “telling”: “She was angry, and he felt guilty.”
• Silence‑driven “showing”:The spoon clinked against the porcelain, a rhythm that grew louder as the minutes stretched. She stared at the steam rising from her tea; he stared at the chipped edge of his mug. No one said a word.

The absence of dialogue forces the reader to infer the tension.

b. Use “Silent Beats” Between Dialogue

• Why: They act like punctuation, letting readers absorb what was just said.
• How: Insert a line break or a brief description of a character’s reaction.

“I’m leaving,” she whispered.

The rain thumped against the window, louder than any goodbye.

The beat gives weight to the line, turning a simple statement into a moment of finality.

c. Let Characters “Fill In Their Own Gaps”

If you give a character an ambiguous line, resist the temptation to explain it for them. Trust the reader’s imagination.

“You remember what happened that night?”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the empty doorway.

Notice we never tell the reader what he remembers. The silence invites speculation, creating deeper engagement.

d. Narrative “Silence” — The Unspoken Backstory

Sometimes the silence isn’t a pause in dialogue but a gap in the narrative. Let background details emerge gradually, through hints rather than exposition.

• Technique: Drop a prop, a habit, or a scar and let the audience wonder.
• Result: The story feels lived‑in, like a real person who has a past you’re only glimpsing.

---

4. Pitfalls to Avoid

Pitfall	Why It Undermines Silence	Quick Fix
Filling gaps with narration	Over‑explaining robs the reader of agency.	Use concise, vivid images instead of exposition.
Awkward, overly long pauses	Can feel uncomfortable, breaking immersion.	Keep silent beats purposeful—2–5 seconds in interviews, a line break or two in prose.
Assuming silence = boredom	Some people mistake quiet for lack of content.	Prepare with strong questions or scene stakes; silence will then feel intentional.
Using silence to avoid the tough question	Leads to shallow interviews/writing.	Embrace uncomfortable topics; let the pause draw them out.

---

5. A Mini‑Exercise to Practice “Silence”

1. Interview: Conduct a 5‑minute conversation with a friend about a memorable childhood event. After each question, count to five silently before responding. Record the exchange. Notice how the answers become richer.
2. Write: Draft a scene (150–200 words) in which two characters meet after years apart. Include at least three silent beats—one before dialogue, one in the middle, one after. Compare the emotional impact to a version where the conversation is nonstop.

---

6. Takeaway: Silence Is Your Secret Superpower

• In interviews, silence is a listening tool that invites deeper, unfiltered storytelling.
• In writing, silence is a structural device that lets characters own their voice and readers fill in the emotional blanks.

When you deliberately step back—whether from a microphone or a keyboard—you create space for authenticity to breathe. And in that breath lies the resonance that makes an interview memorable and a story unforgettable.

Next time you feel the urge to fill the void, pause. Let the silence do the heavy lifting.

---

Ready to try it? Share your silent‑beat experiment in the comments below. I’d love to hear how a simple pause transformed your interview or manuscript!

Day 51 – The Power of Silence

…

The Power of Silence: Why Saying Less Can Make Your Interviews—and Your Writing—Far More Compelling

“Silence is a source of great strength.” — Lao Tzu

In a world that rewards constant chatter, it’s easy to forget that the most memorable moments often happen when nobody is speaking. Whether you’re sitting across from a subject in a face‑to‑face interview or watching a scene unfold on the page, strategic silence can turn good material into something unforgettable.

In this post, we’ll explore:

1. Why silence works – the psychological and narrative reasons it matters.
2. Interview tactics – how to harness pauses, breathing space, and non‑verbal cues.
3. Writing tricks – letting characters speak for themselves and using “silence” in prose.
4. Common pitfalls – what to avoid when you try to be “quiet”.

Grab a notebook (or a blank document) and let the quiet speak to you.

---

1. The Science Behind the Pause

What Happens When You’re Silent	Why It Helps Your Audience
The brain fills in gaps – humans love pattern‑completion.	Listeners/readers become active participants, constructing meaning in the spaces you leave.
Emotional intensity rises – a pause creates tension.	The audience anticipates what comes next, sharpening focus on the upcoming reveal.
Trust is built – you’re not trying to steer the conversation.	Interviewees feel heard, while readers sense authentic, unmanipulated dialogue.
Memory retention improves – novelty stands out.	Unusual moments (a lingering silence) stick in the mind longer than a flood of words.

In short, silence is not “nothing”; it’s a catalyst that amplifies whatever follows it.

---

2. Interview Techniques: Let the Interviewee Own the Story

a. The “Goldilocks” Pause

• What it is: A deliberate, 2‑5‑second silence right after a question or a key statement.
• Why it works: It gives the interviewee mental space to think, often coaxing deeper, less rehearsed answers.
• How to practice:
  1. Ask a question.
  2. Resist the urge to fill the void with “uh‑uh” or “so…”.
  3. Count silently (1‑2‑3…) and then listen.

Example – Instead of “What made you decide to start the company?” followed immediately by “And how did you fund it?”, try:
“What made you decide to start the company?” (pause) “Take your time.” (pause again) …and you’ll hear the story unfold organically.

b. Mirror the Body Language

• Technique: Nod, maintain an open posture, and let the interviewee see you’re engaged without speaking.
• Result: Non‑verbal affirmation often encourages the interviewee to keep talking, turning a silence into a “safe‑space” signal.

c. Avoid “Filler” Questions

• Bad habit: “Do you like that?” or “Is that right?” after every answer.
• Better approach: Let the previous answer breathe. If you need clarification, phrase it as a reflection: “So you’re saying…?” – then pause.

d. The “Quiet Re‑Ask”

When you need deeper detail, repeat the last few words of the interviewee’s answer, then stay silent.

Interviewee: “We had to scrap the original design.”
You: “Scrap the original design…?” (silence)
Result: The interviewee often fills in the missing “why” or “how”.

---

3. Writing Tricks: Let Your Characters Speak for Themselves

a. Show, Don’t Tell—Through Silence

• Scene: A mother and her teenage son sit across a kitchen table after a heated argument.
• Traditional “telling”: “She was angry, and he felt guilty.”
• Silence‑driven “showing”:The spoon clinked against the porcelain, a rhythm that grew louder as the minutes stretched. She stared at the steam rising from her tea; he stared at the chipped edge of his mug. No one said a word.

The absence of dialogue forces the reader to infer the tension.

b. Use “Silent Beats” Between Dialogue

• Why: They act like punctuation, letting readers absorb what was just said.
• How: Insert a line break or a brief description of a character’s reaction.

“I’m leaving,” she whispered.

The rain thumped against the window, louder than any goodbye.

The beat gives weight to the line, turning a simple statement into a moment of finality.

c. Let Characters “Fill In Their Own Gaps”

If you give a character an ambiguous line, resist the temptation to explain it for them. Trust the reader’s imagination.

“You remember what happened that night?”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the empty doorway.

Notice we never tell the reader what he remembers. The silence invites speculation, creating deeper engagement.

d. Narrative “Silence” — The Unspoken Backstory

Sometimes the silence isn’t a pause in dialogue but a gap in the narrative. Let background details emerge gradually, through hints rather than exposition.

• Technique: Drop a prop, a habit, or a scar and let the audience wonder.
• Result: The story feels lived‑in, like a real person who has a past you’re only glimpsing.

---

4. Pitfalls to Avoid

Pitfall	Why It Undermines Silence	Quick Fix
Filling gaps with narration	Over‑explaining robs the reader of agency.	Use concise, vivid images instead of exposition.
Awkward, overly long pauses	Can feel uncomfortable, breaking immersion.	Keep silent beats purposeful—2–5 seconds in interviews, a line break or two in prose.
Assuming silence = boredom	Some people mistake quiet for lack of content.	Prepare with strong questions or scene stakes; silence will then feel intentional.
Using silence to avoid the tough question	Leads to shallow interviews/writing.	Embrace uncomfortable topics; let the pause draw them out.

---

5. A Mini‑Exercise to Practice “Silence”

1. Interview: Conduct a 5‑minute conversation with a friend about a memorable childhood event. After each question, count to five silently before responding. Record the exchange. Notice how the answers become richer.
2. Write: Draft a scene (150–200 words) in which two characters meet after years apart. Include at least three silent beats—one before dialogue, one in the middle, one after. Compare the emotional impact to a version where the conversation is nonstop.

---

6. Takeaway: Silence Is Your Secret Superpower

• In interviews, silence is a listening tool that invites deeper, unfiltered storytelling.
• In writing, silence is a structural device that lets characters own their voice and readers fill in the emotional blanks.

When you deliberately step back—whether from a microphone or a keyboard—you create space for authenticity to breathe. And in that breath lies the resonance that makes an interview memorable and a story unforgettable.

Next time you feel the urge to fill the void, pause. Let the silence do the heavy lifting.

---

Ready to try it? Share your silent‑beat experiment in the comments below. I’d love to hear how a simple pause transformed your interview or manuscript!

Day 50 – Bad poetry

…

When “Feeling” Becomes a Pitfall: Unpacking the Paradox of Bad Poetry

“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.”

It’s a line that sounds like a warning scrawled on the back of a notebook in a cramped dorm room, yet it manages to capture a timeless tension every poet — amateur or seasoned — wrestles with. How can something as sincere as genuine feeling produce poetry that feels flat, trite, or outright “bad”? Why does the very act of being “natural” sometimes devolve into being “obvious,” and why does that matter?

In this post, we’ll:

1. Parse the quote – what does it really say?
2. Explore why raw feeling can become a liability.
3. Distinguish “natural” from “obvious.”
4. Look at real‑world examples of both the curse and the cure.
5. Offer practical steps for turning heartfelt material into artful poetry.

Grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s unpack the paradox that haunts any writer who’s ever tried to put a beating heart on a page.

---

1. The Quote in Plain English

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.

Break it down:

Phrase	What it means (in everyday terms)
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling	Many poems that feel “bad” begin with a sincere emotional impulse. The poet isn’t faking; they truly care.
To be natural is obvious	When a poet writes “naturally,” the language often lands exactly where you’d expect it—no surprise, no tension.
To be obvious is inartistic	Poetry that states the obvious, that tells you exactly what you think you already know, fails to engage the reader’s imagination.

At its core, the statement warns against confusing emotional honesty with artistic success. A poem can be heartfelt and terrible if it leans on the feeling alone and never transforms it.

---

2. Why “Genuine Feeling” Can Produce Bad Poetry

a. Emotion is a Raw Material, Not a Finished Product

Feelings are like unrefined ore: rich, but still needing smelting. When a poet simply pours the ore onto the page, the result is heavy, unshaped, and often unpalatable.

Example: “I’m sad because my dog died. I miss him so much. I cry every night.”
That’s a statement of feeling, not a poem about feeling.

b. The Comfort Zone of the “I-Statement”

Writing “I feel ___” is a reflex. It’s comfortable because it bypasses the challenge of showing rather than telling. The poet leans on the reader’s empathy, assuming the raw confession will do the heavy lifting. Often, it doesn’t.

c. Cliché is the Natural Offspring of Unexamined Feeling

When we rely on our first, most immediate emotional response, we tend to reach for the language we already hear in the world around us. “Heartbreak” becomes “a broken heart,” “sadness” becomes “tears,” “love” becomes “a fire.” The result: a poem that sounds like the collective chorus of every greeting‑card writer that came before.

---

3. Natural vs. Obvious – How the Two Diverge

Natural	Obvious
Feels inevitable – the word choice fits the image like a glove.	Feels predictable – the reader sees the punchline before the line lands.
Leaves room for inference – the poem hints, implies, and trusts the reader to fill gaps.	Leaves no gaps – the poem tells you everything, removing the reader’s agency.
Often uses fresh metaphor or unexpected syntax to convey a familiar feeling.	Relies on familiar metaphor (e.g., “heart is a rose”) and straightforward diction.
Creates tension – the reader must stay awake to parse what the poem doesn’t say.	Creates ease – the reader can skim without thinking.

In short: naturalness is the feeling of inevitability; obviousness is the feeling of inevitability without any surprise. Good poetry walks the line between the two, making the inevitable feel new.

---

4. Case Studies: When Feeling Wins, When It Loses

4.1 The “Bad” Example: A Straight‑forward Lament

My mother’s hand was warm,
Now she’s gone, my world is cold.
I miss her like the desert misses rain.

What went wrong?

• Genuine feeling: The poet truly misses their mother.
• Obvious language: “Warm,” “cold,” “desert misses rain” are all textbook opposites.
• No transformation: The poem says, “I miss my mother,” without inventing a new way to show that loss.

4.2 The “Good” Example: Transformative Imagery

She left a kitchen with an empty kettle,
steam still curling in the hallway’s sigh—
a ghost of mornings that never boiled.

What works?

• Genuine feeling: The poet feels the absence.
• Natural but non‑obvious: The kettle, steam, and hallway become a metaphor for lingering presence.
• Transformation: The everyday object becomes a vessel for grief, inviting the reader to taste the silence.

4.3 Why the Difference Matters

The good poem doesn’t tell you directly “I miss her.” It shows—through a half‑filled kettle and lingering steam—that the house (and the poet) is waiting for a ritual that will never happen again. The reader must assemble the emotional puzzle, which creates a deeper, more resonant experience.

---

5. Turning Genuine Feeling into Artful Poetry

If you’ve ever stared at a notebook full of raw emotions and wondered, “How do I make this poetry?” here are concrete strategies to move from feeling → natural → obvious into feeling → crafted → surprising.

 Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back

1. Write a journal entry (no rhyme, no meter, just the raw feeling).
2. Read it aloud. Highlight any words or phrases that feel over‑used or too literal.
3. Identify the core image: What concrete thing does this feeling actually look like, smell like, sound like?

 Find a “Metaphorical Lens”

Instead of describing the feeling directly, ask:

• What object carries a similar weight?
• Which environment mirrors the internal climate?
• What action could stand in for the emotional state?

Example: “Grief” becomes “a tide that refuses to recede.”

 Play with Form to Force Freshness

• Enjambment can keep the reader guessing.
• Unexpected line breaks can shift emphasis.
• A formal constraint (sonnet, villanelle, ghazal) demands you find fresh ways to fulfil a given structure, preventing the temptation to fall back on clichés.

 Use “Defamiliarisation”

Coined by Russian formalist Viktor Shklovsky: make the familiar strange.
Instead of “cold night,” try “the sky’s iron‑clad sigh.”

This technique pushes the poem away from obviousness and back toward natural intrigue.

 Invite the Reader to Participate

Leave a gap in the narrative. End a stanza on a half‑finished image, or pose a subtle question. The reader’s mind will work to fill that space, turning raw feeling into a collaborative experience.

 Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”

During revision, ask:

• “Is this line the only way to express this idea?”
• “What cliché does this echo? Can I replace it with a specific detail?”
• “Does this line show the feeling, or just tell it?”

If the answer leans toward “tell,” rewrite.

---

6. The Bigger Picture: Art, Authenticity, and Audience

The quote we started with hints at a deeper philosophical conundrum: If poetry is meant to be an artistic rendering of truth, why does authenticity sometimes feel like a handicap?

• The audience’s role – Readers come to poetry seeking not just to be understood but to be re‑imagined. A poem that merely mirrors their own feeling offers no new perspective.
• The artist’s responsibility – The poet must translate—not transcribe—emotion. Translation entails choice, compression, and often, paradox.
• Historical precedent – Think of Walt Whitman’s “I celebrate myself…” He starts with a personal confession, but he immediately expands that self into a universal, almost mythic, voice. The feeling is genuine, but it becomes a vehicle for something larger.

When poets manage this alchemy, the result is not only beautiful; it is transformative.

---

7. Quick Takeaways (For the Busy Writer)

Problem	Why it Happens	Fix
“I’m sad, so I write sad words.”	Overreliance on literal feeling.	Find a concrete image that acts as a stand‑in for sadness.
“Everything feels obvious.”	Using familiar metaphors without thinking.	List clichés, then replace each with a specific, surprising detail.
“My poem feels flat.”	Too much telling, not enough showing.	Rewrite every line as a scene rather than a statement.
“I can’t get past the first draft.”	Fear that editing will kill the feeling.	Separate the process: first, pour out the feeling; second, sculpt it.

---

8. Final Thought: The Art of “In‑Between”

Good poetry lives in the in‑between: between heart and head, feeling and craft, naturalness and surprise. Genuine feeling is the spark; technique, metaphor, and form are the fuel that keep the fire from sputtering out in a puff of obviousness.

So the next time you sit down to write, remember:

Feel first. Then, step away. Then, rebuild.

Let your emotions guide you, but give them a new shape before they become “obviously” bad. In doing so, you honour both the authenticity of your voice and the artistry that makes poetry timeless.

---

Your turn: Grab a piece of genuine feeling you’ve been holding onto—maybe a recent disappointment, a quiet joy, a stubborn love. Write a short stanza that shows that feeling through an unexpected image. Share it in the comments; let’s see how many of us can turn raw feeling into something delightfully natural—but never obvious.

Happy writing! 

Day 50 – Bad poetry

…

When “Feeling” Becomes a Pitfall: Unpacking the Paradox of Bad Poetry

“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.”

It’s a line that sounds like a warning scrawled on the back of a notebook in a cramped dorm room, yet it manages to capture a timeless tension every poet — amateur or seasoned — wrestles with. How can something as sincere as genuine feeling produce poetry that feels flat, trite, or outright “bad”? Why does the very act of being “natural” sometimes devolve into being “obvious,” and why does that matter?

In this post, we’ll:

1. Parse the quote – what does it really say?
2. Explore why raw feeling can become a liability.
3. Distinguish “natural” from “obvious.”
4. Look at real‑world examples of both the curse and the cure.
5. Offer practical steps for turning heartfelt material into artful poetry.

Grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s unpack the paradox that haunts any writer who’s ever tried to put a beating heart on a page.

---

1. The Quote in Plain English

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.

Break it down:

Phrase	What it means (in everyday terms)
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling	Many poems that feel “bad” begin with a sincere emotional impulse. The poet isn’t faking; they truly care.
To be natural is obvious	When a poet writes “naturally,” the language often lands exactly where you’d expect it—no surprise, no tension.
To be obvious is inartistic	Poetry that states the obvious, that tells you exactly what you think you already know, fails to engage the reader’s imagination.

At its core, the statement warns against confusing emotional honesty with artistic success. A poem can be heartfelt and terrible if it leans on the feeling alone and never transforms it.

---

2. Why “Genuine Feeling” Can Produce Bad Poetry

a. Emotion is a Raw Material, Not a Finished Product

Feelings are like unrefined ore: rich, but still needing smelting. When a poet simply pours the ore onto the page, the result is heavy, unshaped, and often unpalatable.

Example: “I’m sad because my dog died. I miss him so much. I cry every night.”
That’s a statement of feeling, not a poem about feeling.

b. The Comfort Zone of the “I-Statement”

Writing “I feel ___” is a reflex. It’s comfortable because it bypasses the challenge of showing rather than telling. The poet leans on the reader’s empathy, assuming the raw confession will do the heavy lifting. Often, it doesn’t.

c. Cliché is the Natural Offspring of Unexamined Feeling

When we rely on our first, most immediate emotional response, we tend to reach for the language we already hear in the world around us. “Heartbreak” becomes “a broken heart,” “sadness” becomes “tears,” “love” becomes “a fire.” The result: a poem that sounds like the collective chorus of every greeting‑card writer that came before.

---

3. Natural vs. Obvious – How the Two Diverge

Natural	Obvious
Feels inevitable – the word choice fits the image like a glove.	Feels predictable – the reader sees the punchline before the line lands.
Leaves room for inference – the poem hints, implies, and trusts the reader to fill gaps.	Leaves no gaps – the poem tells you everything, removing the reader’s agency.
Often uses fresh metaphor or unexpected syntax to convey a familiar feeling.	Relies on familiar metaphor (e.g., “heart is a rose”) and straightforward diction.
Creates tension – the reader must stay awake to parse what the poem doesn’t say.	Creates ease – the reader can skim without thinking.

In short: naturalness is the feeling of inevitability; obviousness is the feeling of inevitability without any surprise. Good poetry walks the line between the two, making the inevitable feel new.

---

4. Case Studies: When Feeling Wins, When It Loses

4.1 The “Bad” Example: A Straight‑forward Lament

My mother’s hand was warm,
Now she’s gone, my world is cold.
I miss her like the desert misses rain.

What went wrong?

• Genuine feeling: The poet truly misses their mother.
• Obvious language: “Warm,” “cold,” “desert misses rain” are all textbook opposites.
• No transformation: The poem says, “I miss my mother,” without inventing a new way to show that loss.

4.2 The “Good” Example: Transformative Imagery

She left a kitchen with an empty kettle,
steam still curling in the hallway’s sigh—
a ghost of mornings that never boiled.

What works?

• Genuine feeling: The poet feels the absence.
• Natural but non‑obvious: The kettle, steam, and hallway become a metaphor for lingering presence.
• Transformation: The everyday object becomes a vessel for grief, inviting the reader to taste the silence.

4.3 Why the Difference Matters

The good poem doesn’t tell you directly “I miss her.” It shows—through a half‑filled kettle and lingering steam—that the house (and the poet) is waiting for a ritual that will never happen again. The reader must assemble the emotional puzzle, which creates a deeper, more resonant experience.

---

5. Turning Genuine Feeling into Artful Poetry

If you’ve ever stared at a notebook full of raw emotions and wondered, “How do I make this poetry?” here are concrete strategies to move from feeling → natural → obvious into feeling → crafted → surprising.

 Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back

1. Write a journal entry (no rhyme, no meter, just the raw feeling).
2. Read it aloud. Highlight any words or phrases that feel over‑used or too literal.
3. Identify the core image: What concrete thing does this feeling actually look like, smell like, sound like?

 Find a “Metaphorical Lens”

Instead of describing the feeling directly, ask:

• What object carries a similar weight?
• Which environment mirrors the internal climate?
• What action could stand in for the emotional state?

Example: “Grief” becomes “a tide that refuses to recede.”

 Play with Form to Force Freshness

• Enjambment can keep the reader guessing.
• Unexpected line breaks can shift emphasis.
• A formal constraint (sonnet, villanelle, ghazal) demands you find fresh ways to fulfil a given structure, preventing the temptation to fall back on clichés.

 Use “Defamiliarisation”

Coined by Russian formalist Viktor Shklovsky: make the familiar strange.
Instead of “cold night,” try “the sky’s iron‑clad sigh.”

This technique pushes the poem away from obviousness and back toward natural intrigue.

 Invite the Reader to Participate

Leave a gap in the narrative. End a stanza on a half‑finished image, or pose a subtle question. The reader’s mind will work to fill that space, turning raw feeling into a collaborative experience.

 Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”

During revision, ask:

• “Is this line the only way to express this idea?”
• “What cliché does this echo? Can I replace it with a specific detail?”
• “Does this line show the feeling, or just tell it?”

If the answer leans toward “tell,” rewrite.

---

6. The Bigger Picture: Art, Authenticity, and Audience

The quote we started with hints at a deeper philosophical conundrum: If poetry is meant to be an artistic rendering of truth, why does authenticity sometimes feel like a handicap?

• The audience’s role – Readers come to poetry seeking not just to be understood but to be re‑imagined. A poem that merely mirrors their own feeling offers no new perspective.
• The artist’s responsibility – The poet must translate—not transcribe—emotion. Translation entails choice, compression, and often, paradox.
• Historical precedent – Think of Walt Whitman’s “I celebrate myself…” He starts with a personal confession, but he immediately expands that self into a universal, almost mythic, voice. The feeling is genuine, but it becomes a vehicle for something larger.

When poets manage this alchemy, the result is not only beautiful; it is transformative.

---

7. Quick Takeaways (For the Busy Writer)

Problem	Why it Happens	Fix
“I’m sad, so I write sad words.”	Overreliance on literal feeling.	Find a concrete image that acts as a stand‑in for sadness.
“Everything feels obvious.”	Using familiar metaphors without thinking.	List clichés, then replace each with a specific, surprising detail.
“My poem feels flat.”	Too much telling, not enough showing.	Rewrite every line as a scene rather than a statement.
“I can’t get past the first draft.”	Fear that editing will kill the feeling.	Separate the process: first, pour out the feeling; second, sculpt it.

---

8. Final Thought: The Art of “In‑Between”

Good poetry lives in the in‑between: between heart and head, feeling and craft, naturalness and surprise. Genuine feeling is the spark; technique, metaphor, and form are the fuel that keep the fire from sputtering out in a puff of obviousness.

So the next time you sit down to write, remember:

Feel first. Then, step away. Then, rebuild.

Let your emotions guide you, but give them a new shape before they become “obviously” bad. In doing so, you honour both the authenticity of your voice and the artistry that makes poetry timeless.

---

Your turn: Grab a piece of genuine feeling you’ve been holding onto—maybe a recent disappointment, a quiet joy, a stubborn love. Write a short stanza that shows that feeling through an unexpected image. Share it in the comments; let’s see how many of us can turn raw feeling into something delightfully natural—but never obvious.

Happy writing!