"There and Back Again", wrote the Hobbit.

Some of us who would be writers spend more time in search of voice and subject than we do in actual time writing. I am aware here that I've used the familiar, universal "we", and had better make note at this beginning that I speak for and of myself. So it is I that spends more time reading and mulling than I do writing, despite resolve upon resolve.

Still, read Edward Hoagland, proclaimed as "the greatest esayist of my time", (John Updike). It is true that he has written extensively, and written well. His essays, well-crafted and of interest, are compelling. Still, in getting there, accomplishing those writings, Mr Hoagland has travelled the world. And in that travel -though I must admit I do not know this personally- I suspect that a substantial amount of that time was spent in the experience of observation and not writing. I grasp on Mr Hoagland totally out of respect, without hope of emulation, but rather as, at least, a barometer of process. And I am clear that my travels are quite different than those of Mr Hoagland, ultimately with different observation and subject matter.

My most recent excursion has taken me into the treacherous crevices of poetry. I have for some six years wandered the plains of the personal essay, and where I found heights I thought I might try, I haven't seemed to get my footing in the combination of voice and subject matter. It does seem that the two must find a complimentary blend at the risk otherwise of being either pedantic or pedestrian, or both. Interest without passion; passion without insight. The distraction to poetry came by way of the virtual social network afforded through Gather.com where I read and connected with a writer and blogster, and was invited to join the writing group she'd established at My Global Village. It quickly became clear that she was not only the group leader, but that she is well versed and skilled at poetry. Poetry?

Over the years I, myself, have dabbled in small bits of verse, none of which ever came to a conclusion. Of my own, I could sort of get the feel. But of others, those accomplish a conclusion, I would always be lost. Still, it wasn't as though I couldn't make out some of what most any poet had written. One of the things that has come to me in this off-the-beaten-path I've taken has been the awareness that one does indeed have to take time, mull, many of the works offered in poetry. Until this new awareness I had all but assumed that it was just my lack of synapse connections. And I still don't rule that out completely, but that's for a different discussion. My new awareness comes in learning from a poet-critic master, William Empson, that much of poetry is written ambiguously, that is, the poet's choice of expression from imagination may indeed not mesh immediately with the reading public. And that such writing choices may or may not be by design, but in any case can be teased out by critique; time spent. Perhaps, I am thinking, this genre may yet be do-able. I got my footing, and posted to the site.

Through a convoluted matter of synchronicity I came upon the poet, Ted Hughes and his writing. And, yes, I came upon his personal tragedy controversy as well. That remains a matter for another time also. Hughes' poetry, though, presents a good example of ambiguous expression. In his case, the only I have to draw upon at this time, the ambiguity is less a matter of interpreting words that could be meant two -or more- ways, but rather, ambiguity in the metaphor. Coached, as it were, by the critique of Christopher Reid, I could at least appreciate the sense of the poetry as observation on nature with masculine "feel". Well I would need a lot more time at my disposal to make Ted Hughes' poetry a comfortable familiarity, much less, a style of expression I might use. I slipped back down then to the broader, more familiar pathway in the reading of essays. Ed Hoagland essays for now.

In my travel through the American Scholar of Winter 2009, I came across Edward Hoagland as part of that same synchronicity just alluded to above. Here he applies his skill as he takes off from Cormac McCarty's "No Country for Old Men", with his own, "A Country for Old Men", looking at how people -he's focused on men- go from "bursting buoyancy" as children to "about where they aimed" near the end of life. Ed Hoagland, yet another guidepost, one that led me again to the library, and three more of his writings. The first I looked at was the 1999 edition of The Best American Essays, which he edited. There, Hoagland began his introduction to the edition with: "Essay are how we speak to one another in print - caroming thoughts not merely in order to convey a certain packet of information, but with a special kind of edge or bounce of personal character in a kind of public letter". A public letter! Yes, that what personal essays are about. They are a public letter ever since Montaigne. Both personal and public. Consider the Internet.

The Internet, both personal and public; democratization of information and expression. Ahhh, no doubt, there are those not there yet either by choice or by economy. But there's hardly a corner of the globe, a society, a culture, untouched by, unconnected from, the Internet. And if you can get on that highway, you'll find vehicles of expression waiting for you to drive. Elsewhere I've spoken of such vehicles, such sites: Google Documents; Blogger; Spaces Live. Once in gear all you need is your voice and your subject, then enjoy the ride. Once again my exuberance gains a momentary upper hand. Sobbered, I must come back to the question of what shall I write of; what shall be my tone?

My travel early this year did not take me over terrifying terrain, but rather into and out of a domain of enchantment in poetry to which I will return for further learning. Travelling brought me back to familar and satisfying ground in the realm of the personal essay, where no I am convinced of home. Now to build a house.