Kim Addonizio’s Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within functions much like many other books in the writing reference genre: offering anecdotes, exercises and example in an attempt to seduce novice writers into the act of actually writing; which, to her credit, she manages. Addonizio touches on virtually every aspect of writing—from reading and interpreting others’ work, to the intricacies of craft, as well as the disappointment of rejection.
Yet the book falters, perhaps, in the specificity of its audience. Ordinary Genius is, in fact, for the ordinary. It appears written for the novice writer, and at times, causes the more experienced writer to feel slightly patronized, as if somehow the experienced writer needed reminding that writing is hard, that one might feel “overwhelmed,” that “fear” is a significant part of the craft. This is not to say that experienced writers gain nothing from her efforts. As she explains, her book contains ideas about “life and art, self-destruction and self-expression, difficulty and pain and failure, joy and ease and perfect moments” (13). While some chapters feel like the rehashing of familiar “writerly truisms,” there are enough glimmers of beauty to have transformed my copy into a dog-earred mess in no time.
Perhaps the most surprising glimmer of all was her contention that, “You don’t have to understand something to be affected by it” (93). The line seemed to glow from the page. As a reader who’s often struggled grasping poetry, this simple statement managed to unlock the guilty shackles, reminding me that it was okay to enjoy a poem without necessarily having the capability to write a 200 page dissertation on its various interpretations. Sometimes, we can just let the poem be.
However, Addonizio’s most practical writing advice comes in the form of her exercises. The book is, quite literally, overwhelmed with dozens of useful writing exercises, all of them designed to take the lackluster poet and mold him into a well-honed poem-producing machine. The exercises range from writing a line with 17 syllables to giving new life to a minor character in a familiar text. Addonizio asks writers to call up faded memories, tell their love stories, to steal their favorite lines from famous poets and revise. She breathes fresh life into an old genre, begging the writer to become captivated with craft, to reinvigorate weary bones and weary voices to fashion something new.
Ordinary Genius conjures the age-old question: “Can writing be taught?” And while Addonizio’s book offers no clear answer, it certainly takes a stance. For the skeptics who believe otherwise—that writing cannot be taught—Addonizio offers 300 pages of convincing counterargument.