We had a craft talk just now by the poet B.H. Fairchild. He spoke about the difference between lyric and narrative poetry, and where they intersect. At the end of the talk he read one of his own poems. One of the residents piped up and said, basically, that if what happened in the poem hadn't happened in "real life" he didn't care about it. He expressed it as being "real" or "false." Fairchild brought up all these examples of how truth is found in literature, that it doesn't matter if it's fictive or not. The man said he disagreed. Fairchild then became rather passionate and said if it wasn't important he'd spent the last 35 years in vain. The man said, "I'm sorry about that." It was rather embarrassing.
I got going on AUDRA again today and feel very good about it. It felt like breaking through something. If I let Audra go she'll find some trouble to stir up. She's got her own way of looking at the world, and I need to let her be instead of trying to twist her into the kind of protagonist she's not.
Tomorrow is the meeting with the founders. Should be interesting.
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