Exactly–a look at draft 1 and draft 2

January 16, 2008 at 12:26 pm (Poetry)

So I wrote a comedic list poem about being an egg, the first version is the original draft, which is loosely based off some prewriting. The second is a rewrite of the first, bearing in mind that the first was pretty awful. My poetry teacher nodded knowingly, not laughing mind you, at the first draft, and although he was polite about it, it wasn’t the matter at hand, so we didn’t have time to discuss just how awful it was. It met the criteria; it was not a good poem. Anyway, you get to see both drafts–I’m not necessarily settling on the second draft, I just think it’s a vast improvement over the first. And I decided to post both because I think it’s cool to see how the writing process can play out.

“Exactly” [First Draft]
I am neither bored nor boring. I’ve never
done much of anything. Well, that’s not
exactly true. There was once this girl that I
met at a bar, who I told I was unfertilized. I
wasn’t sure whether I was telling
her I wasn’t gay or that I was on the market,
but she got the right idea because she took me
home. By the way, I’m an egg. And between
me and her it started out all up in the air, and
with eggs that means the situation was quickly
exacerbated and the extent of my excitement can
be measured extensively in the following example:
you and I are a lot alike, like spatulas and Teflon-coated
pans. Once up in the air, exactly one thing can
happen. And it did: she caught me. Her fingers
were long and smooth—I predicted a fair-weather
evening ahead. She didn’t make me feel awkward
by making puns about my specifications, which is
just as well because those jokes are not my
sort of thing. With eggs we talk about those
sorts of things in a scholarly way, analyzing
those for whom bilabial has more to do with
pronunciation than with talk of what it was
like back home. We don’t squirm so much. And
although she and I will never share a common
understanding of the color white or the
composition of teeth it doesn’t matter
as much as you would think. When we got
back to her place, we shared a bed and trade
secrets. She was a pastry chef, which wasn’t
exactly what I wanted to hear, but it kept my
curiosity. She was into role-playing, but I was
the only one playing a role. I was the blackbird.
She baked me into a pie. For me it wasn’t the
same as dying, but it was a change of state;
a new exactness that was a lot like release.
It’s a strange thing to become a member
of a community where lactose intolerance refers to a
type of racism. For all being a pie was worth, for
all that I lost, I am going to enjoy every moment
at the back of her throat.

“Exactly” [Second Draft]
If I were an egg, I think I would want to be
something else—get in touch with my inner
blackbird. It’s sort of like a kid wanting to
grow up to be an astronaut, instead of a
divorce lawyer; it’s not yet about what
you can do or are good at. As an egg you
have a new sibling born every day, wanting
to bum a couple of dollars or some cigarettes,
and you get tired of it over time, so you can
see why I’d want to be reborn. At the bars I’d
tell girls I was unfertilized to show that we
had something in common, presumably.
And I think I’d like to go home with a pastry
chef—to be introduced to a world where
lactose intolerance is more a form of racism,
and we could share trade secrets. We’d
roleplay in the bedroom, and I’d finally get
to be the blackbird. She would bake me
into a pie. I would spend my last moments
enjoying my time at the back of her throat.
I don’t think eggs like egg puns. At the bars
saying things like “egg-xactly” to an egg will
only exacerbate the situation, possibly to the
extent of a parking lot excursion. Eggs
probably shouldn’t fight, but sometimes you
have to do what you have to do. I doubt
most eggs would recommend going home
with a pastry chef, no matter how cute,
either. But I like to keep things up in the
air because that’s an exciting place to be
as an egg. And that pastry chef, with the
mousey brown hair, whose favorite movie
is that one about chickens fleeing the coop,
would catch me every time. Even when she’s
had one too many, she has quick, soft hands.
It feels like falling into a bucket of flour, which
is exactly what I need right now.