My thoughts after reading William Stafford's "You Must Revise Your Life"

I realized this week that I am a writer. William Stafford has helped me to come to this conclusion. I may not have had many publications, but I have been able to express myself through words on the page in ways that have moved myself and the few people with whom I have shared my poetry. Writing is my outlet for the abundance of emotion floating around in my psyche; it is my medium for communicating with loved ones when I feel that my verbal articulation is sub-sub par. It is how I am able to find the true value of my experiences when they seem lost to me. Because I love to write, and write because I have to, I am a writer.

William Stafford’s book You Must Revise Your Life is a beautifully crafted guide to the writer that I have been searching for my whole adult life. Its pages are filled with the most spiritually fulfilling chapters that explain what life should be like for a writer—without actually telling the reader what to do. His tone is fatherly, his presence wise, and with the turn of every page I felt the desire to cultivate my own writing as a tribute to his brilliant words.

As the title of the book suggests, Stafford does make the claim that writers need to change their lives in order to produce effective writing. Some may already have the right attitude, and perhaps they are the ones already publishing their works. But for many, I believe they fall into the same traps I did, they had their eyes on the wrong prize. In the chapter titled “ A Witness for Poetry” Stafford writes “Instead of trying to achieve satisfaction by fitting society’s hurdles I think that the artist is the one who has chosen another kind of satisfaction that is so much interiorized that it never fails.” (65) The prize that many people seek is publication and formal laudation. The true prize should be the satisfaction of expressing yourself through your poem as you are writing.

The desire to be published is so strong for the general mass that students try to write what they think will get them an “A” and teachers encourage students based on what they think will be publishable. Stafford’s teaching theory is far removed from this philosophy. As a teacher, he preferred to be regarded as a peer. He didn’t write comments on his students’ papers other than marking weaknesses and strengths that the students could later revise themselves. Through this method he would help guide his students towards developing their own voices.
Stafford believed that writing was organic. He believed that if you listened, the words would come together that were necessary to complete a thought. He describes writing as “ seek[ing] its own form…how a phrase when you speak it or write it begins to call up another phrase, or how a word suddenly finds another word that its syllables like to associate with. (21) Because of the magical nature of writing, the meaning of a poem need not be formulated before beginning the first line. Colors may emerge in your poem with now significant reason to you, until you look back and realize that it is the color of the flower sitting outside of your window.

As a teacher, Stafford wrote his book as a guide to fellow poets. His notion that the prize is the actual act of writing and the publications and awards are merely by-products is profound and inspiring. His philosophy that the meaning will find its way through your pen gives hope to the many opening lines that appear to have to direction and are never given a chance. You Must Revise Your Life is a book that should be read by anyone struggling with the decision to write and by anyone faced with a classroom full of hungry eyes awaiting instruction. I knew when I was 12 that I was a writer. I have written many poems, a few short stories, and numerous essays. Since reading this book, I have made the leap and revised my own life. I am now finally able to face the world as a writer and a lover of language.



Here is a poem that I wrote while reading this book:

Upon Reading William Stafford’s “Yellow Cars”

I listen gently to the rain—I
always have a pen on hand
but not always paper.
The thoughts flow quicker than
I can understand them, emotions;
raw and un-expressed.
I read of a yellow car, I see it drive by,
I turn my head and find that I am happy.
The rain hits softly on my third story window—
I wonder how the ground feels
underneath your feet as you walk to our door.