Patrick Vala-Haynes on Writing

“Witness to a Fall Morning” is the record of an observation while on a run in the foothills of the Oregon Coast Range. There’s no metaphor. Invention, yes. My neighbors are people who wonder what all the fuss is about. Why the romance about country life? They don’t believe they’re worthy of a story.   

After the sturm and drang of teenage scribblings (which scribblings I count among the best of my work), I abandoned poetry for 35 years. I’d always imagined myself a novelist or a screenwriter and have pursued story with a sense of vengeance. While seeking opportunities for a good kill, I’ve never stopped questioning my methods. I’ve whipped myself through technique and structure, and practiced dishonesty in the pursuit of an audience because writing is pointless without one—at least one. Why the hell not try poetry again? 

For an audience?

If I find myself askew of too much of the poetry I read, maybe it’s because I read too much. But put those words to a voice, let me struggle with the author’s odd inflection or the twang of a verb, a rhyming ditty about a frog or a fencepost, and I’ll give credit. For me, poetry has always been dialogue. I need noise and response, I want raised brows and surprised grunts. I want the sweaty thousands of a Sunday afternoon rock concert, knowing full well that 10 gray-haired, mostly bored and teary-eyed folks (I count myself among them) may not respond to the level of excitement I feel on stage. I’ll take what they give and celebrate the moment. By their presence they deserve an honest telling. I’ll fight against the rattle of a farm truck going by, the click of a wine glass on a capped tooth, the snore coming from the corner. If I can’t win that battle, I’ll sit down.   

I’m a lover of narrative. I’m stuck on telling people’s stories, whether with 25 words or 125,000. 

As a writer, I promise good intentions while inventing lives and histories. I have to imagine my words are deserving of an audience. Maybe I’ll show people something they otherwise wouldn’t have seen. That’s my arrogance, that I’m worthy of being heard. I also know doubt. I know that in moments of silence, between coughs and the shuffling of feet, my every false moment will be magnified. That I need to listen. I’ll go home and try again. I’ll run a little harder.