A Conversation with Emmett Wheatfall in Spring Helps me Conquer my Fear of Summer Rain
- Fenyx Quinn
- 1 day ago
- 6 min read
The written word lives differently on the page than it does when it's released into the wild, giving it depth, dimension and sound. This week, I learned just how far apart the spoken and written word can be.
"No poet will ever take the written word as a substitute for the spoken word; he knows that it is on the spoken word, and the spoken word only, that his art is founded." This emphasizes the unique power of spoken expression in poetry." - Sarah Kay, co-founder of Project V.O.I.C.E.
On Sunday night, I went to sleep in a state of fear. This was the week. The week I'd been avoiding in my head. This week I would have to speak out loud about a tragic episode from my past, the pinnacle of tragic as far as I was concerned, that I had written about, but that was becoming harder to talk about.
A couple of months back I had agreed, without thinking too much, to read a couple of my poems that were chosen for the annual Clark College Literary Journal, The Swift. I didn't know then how much sleep I would lose over the fear of not getting through my recitations.
But then, I awoke to an email.
It was from the local chapter of Willamette Writers announcing the special guest clinic for that night's meeting: Mr. Emmett Wheatfall speaking on "Writing as Performance: How to Read Your Work Aloud."
Of all the writing group joints in all the towns in all the countries, Mr. Wheatfall chose to accept an invitation to the writing group I regularly attend. And this week, with this topic is something right out of fiction.
An Evening with Mr. Emmett Wheatfall
"#19: Breathe life into what you are reading or reciting." - Emmett Wheatfall
I had the opportunity to meet Mr. Wheatfall while we both grabbed a coffee out of the Keurig when I first arrived at the meeting. We connected over travel, traffic, and military service (mine and him living through his father's). He told me how he was the original "karate kid" in Okinawa and his antics outside the wire of terrorizing the locals.
When I found my seat and the meeting started, Mr. Wheatfall began by reciting a rousing rendition of Katharine Lee Bates's poem, "America the Beautiful." When he came to the word "America," one could almost hear the old red, white, and blue rasping in the wind atop a flagpole. His voice and command when delivering lines was so captivating. It was a spiritual experience.
He then moved into the next part of his program where he laid out his twenty-five "Principles, Tips, and Tricks" when reading works aloud. Under threat of being sued, not once, not twice, but thrice, I will not be disclosing the contents of his Poetic Heuristics here, short of the one disclosed above (#19 is my favorite and the one I think helped me most). However, I do hope that you, if ever the chance crosses your path, find yourself in one of Mr. Wheatfall's clinics to get a hold of your own experience with his recitation toolkit.
After learning how to better perform our work and critiquing a few recorded poems, we moved on to the practical application of the meeting. A few of us had the opportunity to read from poems and short stories that we brought with us so we could practice the new techniques we learned and be critiqued by the group and Mr. Wheatfall himself.
I went second and just my luck; Mr. Wheatfall stopped me on the second word. "Anytime you've got 'Oh...' its 'OH!' That's why you use it!"
And, OH! Was he ever right. I restarted, did it a little better and was able to carry on for a while. Until, that is, the next lesson emerged. Mr. Wheatfall asked me to read it like I was "at a park, and there's a blanket, and there's a basket" and I was reciting it to who was with me. " Read it "like you're talking to her," he said. So, I gave it my best effort while still doing the calculations in my mind. My fears were starting to creep back up against me. I realized I was having a problem picturing the images, that were so easy to see while I wrote my work, while I read my work.
Luckily, I finished without crashing and getting burnt. I earned an "it's a work in progress" from Mr. Wheatfall, which is the equivalent of a gold star in my book, and I took my seat. What an amazing and scary experience.
The night ended and I retired to my Bronco where I closed my eyes and found as much calm in my nerves as I could. I pulled out the two poems that I was scheduled to read, flipped to the poem about my son, the one I did not have the courage to read in the meeting, and immediately closed the binder.
To hear the critique, tap here:
Preparedness Equals Confidence
“The written word may be man's greatest invention. It allows us to converse with the dead, the absent, and the unborn.” – Abraham Lincoln
The morning of the launch party for The Swift, a couple of days after the Willamette Writers meeting, I felt more confident, prepared, and calm. This was because I applied many of Mr. Wheatfall's tips and critiques to my poems. As one of the members of the group said at the meeting, "with preparedness, comes confidence."
However, then an email popped into my inbox.
It was simply a spreadsheet with the fifteen or so authors that would be reading the poems or excerpts of the short stories they had written and was chosen for the publication. I looked for my name and found it and my two poems about halfway down the list. Thank the muses I'm not first, I thought. But, when I looked after my name, after my poems, the speaker due up right after me, right after I pour my soul out into a microphone about my memories and struggles with dealing with the passing of my son, was another poet reading a poem titled, "October Twenty-Fourth." The exact day my son died.
My heart sank through the floor, time stopped, and the shakes came back. I started to wonder if this was a sign to not go. To abstain from the whole evolution. To deny fate the satisfaction of my failure in front of a room full of people.
The Release
“Sometimes your destiny is wrapped up in a veil of fear to check if you really have the courage to face it.” – Marcus Hades
I did end up going to the release party. I owed it to Kaedin to put the poem out into the Aether. To breathe life into it. Even if I couldn't say his name. I went. I sat in a chair in the corner and waited my turn with a couple of poems in size fourteen font and marked up with highlighter and pen sitting before me. I spent the time picturing myself in each scene.
The spring scene with the dragonflies was very easy to be inside, remembering sitting in the community garden, waiting for inspiration like Ben Franklin waiting for a lightning strike. I remembered waiting for a long time, then the dragonfly came and started landing on the flowers and zipping to and fro. Back in the Clark College room 161, I turned and looked outside at the rain streaking the windows. It was much easier to be in the spring poem than the one with the summer storm. It's always much easier to sit in the sun than to walk through the rain.
When my penname was called, I subconsciously willed myself to stand and walk to the microphone. Going through Mr. Wheatfall's list of "Principles, Tips, and Tricks" made my inner psyche prepared and ready for battle even if my outer shell initially bucked and shook at the prompt.
I started with an intro and an epigraph of what I was going to read. Highlighting that the two poems go together like seasons, the first ("The Stardance of Dragonflies") as spring and the second ("Ad Astra per Tempesta") what happens when an unexpected storm ushers summer in.
I closed my eyes before each poem, saw the scene, and breathed as much life and soul into the poem as I could. I remember reliving the images as I spoke, but I do not remember speaking the words. If I didn't record it myself, I would doubt I ever spoke.
I made it through my crucible. I couldn't say Kaedin's name, but I hope I lifted his spirit up.
This week instilled in me that writing does not end at the page. A poem changes when spoken aloud. Sometimes, the writer changes with it.
When the reading concluded, the room applauded, the rain still streaked the windows outside, and for the first time all week, for the first time in a very long time, I could finally breathe.
I found my own release.
To hear the two poems ("The Stardance of Dragonflies" and "Ad Astra per Tempesta") at the release party, tap below:
Pick up The Swift here:
Clark College
1933 Fort Vancouver Way
Vancouver, WA 98663
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