Question for people who write poetry and fiction

I seem to be writing them from different places in my brain. I have been trying and can't seem to make the transition. Is this common? Does poetry just come from "some other place"? I don't want my fiction to be "poetic" necessarily, but it certainly would be nice to tap into that place for metaphor and description.
I can't seem to get through the wall between the two types of writing.
So, if you write both, do they come from the same place?

I really do feel like I"m holding myself back. That's exactly what it is. sigh...I have some writing to do today, maybe a short story to practice on to get it where I want it.
Maybe I'll write an entire short story blank screen and see if it finds me in the dark.

janetbellinger said:

I don't know. I have to consciously hold myself back from being poetic in my fiction writing, because if I don't, I'm told my writing is too flowery.
I definitely work against any poetic inclinations when I am writing fiction.

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I have the opposite problem, mine seems too dry. My poetry isn't really flowery though, so it certainly wouldn't add that element, but I would love to use the visual/metaphor elements more easily. I would love to tap into it.
I have to try to break through it.

So do you think it is that I might be trying too hard and I have to just use the tools I have without thinking too much about them? It's like sports, if you think too much about your swing, you screw it up, whereas if you are slightly distracted, you just go naturally with what you know.
I'm psyching myself out, eh?

Ray, you write fiction like I write poetry.

ok. today I am going to try something different and see how it goes.
Thanks,
Trish

I don't think it will manifest in draft 2 if it wasn't there in draft one, A. In fact, I'm sort of worried that it won't unless I learn it (or allow it, as the case may be) to be present in the writing process before that time.
What if I just can't access that part of my brain and my fiction never gets the benefit of poetic sensibility? I guess it means I'll never be a very good fiction writer? Or maybe just accept that they are different. I don't know.
I'm going to do a couple of exercise with short stories and see if I can't bridge the gap. Otherwise, the mediocrity will rule the longer works.
Of course I come to this thought after I've set a strict deadline for the wip...
I'm just going to have to write through it. THing is, the most recent chapter I can barely read without cringing. It's just not that good. Is it the story or the writing. Maybe I"ll just try to write this chapter over.


Now I'm second guessing everything. This is a very bad thing. the self-doubting, self-sabotaging internal "what the hell do you think your doing" critic is back...ggrrr...

It's a nice idea, Ray. I'll think on it tonight, and maybe give it a shot tomorrow.


thanks you guys!

I know not everyone has to write poetry to write fiction, SF. I just mean that I feel my fiction is stifled and it feels like they are written from different places in my brain. I'm trying to combine the two, let those two writing brains merge somehow.

I'm still working on it but fear I may be thinking too hard and need to set myself off center and write and write and let go. I think Kevin and Ray are right, I have to trigger it, I have to let it go.
I do appreciate the "view from a child's eyes though" you are so right about that being a place of good writing.
Thanks!

Trish

I posted this in another thread to someone else, but I have to admit that while I was doing some reading last night for my latest story I came across this quote and nearly fell over, since, well, it is so much associated with what I am putting myself through. I am analyzing and that is bad.
Here's the quote, just for some thought:

Ernest Hemingway on F. Scott Fitzgerald:

"His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterflies wings. At one time he understood no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it was effortless."