My short poem “Idiosyncrasy” is published at the always wonderful Amphibi.us. Many thanks to editor Shannon Peil for taking this little piece about religion and our idiosyncratic tendencies when it comes to it. This month is Poetry Month and I’m happy to have contributed with a good piece to the universe of…verse.
On my Facebook page, a friend commented that this was a wonderful way to honor a father. It’s always interesting to me what people take from what I write; I try to bury things as much as possible within and beneath the lines in all of my pieces, then let readers take what they want from them. I thought this little poem was pretty harsh on the institution of religion and on the father character as well, but it seems to give off different vibes. Which is fantastic. As a reader myself, I wish to come to a novel or a story with my own ideas, experiences, and I always wish to have a somewhat elastic story presented to me. I despise things that are contrived or tend to stay within boundaries; I think this is why I am allergic to any type of genre fiction. I like stories or novels that leave a lot of things open for me; I like to be given credit as a reader that I will figure things out, that I will take themes and ideas with me, long after I’ve closed the book and have read the last page. I’ve been accused of elitism before, but it’s wrong: when I was young I read voraciously everything you could ever imagine. I am nearing 43 years of age now and I’ve figured out where I wish to gravitate; that’s all. I no longer go to things that are necessarily mainstream or “popular” or anything that I am not interested in. The books that fail to hook me within 40 or so pages are donated. I won’t commit to them anymore; I have in the past. It’s not elitism, it’s preference mixed in with few stretches of free time. So I have to choose wisely.
I digressed in this post, as I usually do. To get back on track, the intentions with which I approach writing a piece of fiction are, of course, personal; what fascinates me is the mix of ideas a reader brings to them…and the meaning she/he takes from them. It is one of the things that, for me, makes art so beautiful: its subjectivity and ability to, perhaps, speak to one profoundly–but in a much different way than the artist or creator intended it to.