I have seen myself as a writer ever since I could hold a crayon. I drew and wrote letters, telling stories to anyone who happened by. Usually, that person was my mother. She was a teacher and always encouraged me. She’d look at my scribbles and pictures and ask me to tell her about them. And that would be the only invitation I needed. I’d start rattling off some adventure with animals, the woods, and a tea party with cake. My stories always ended with cake. My father would also encourage me. He was a poet and a writer and I think he was so proud that I loved the pencil as much as he did. He’d read stories to me that were way above my understanding, but somehow I would take snippets of images and make them my own. Today, my father is ninety-four years old, and he continues to send me texts telling me to read this article, or that book, and sometimes he writes me text-sized poems. So I guess I was very lucky to have grown up with a built-in writing community.
As I grew, I often received praise and awards for my poetry. It was the one thing I did well. The one thing of which I could be confident. I loved to share my writing with classmates and often teachers would showcase my stories or poems. When I became a teenager all that changed. I still wrote, but I didn’t share my work with anyone. I separated myself from my parents as all teenagers must do, but I also felt that I could not share my writing and feeling with my friends. No one else in my circle wrote. They danced, or skated, or played softball. I felt that they would not understand. So I wrote for myself. It wasn’t until college that I found another community of writers. These were women like me: English majors, readers, passionate about the world around them, full of ideas and dreams. In my junior year, I was selected to be part of Adrienne Rich’s year-long poetry seminar. I was excited and terrified at the same time. This was a whole new level of community. This community was going to judge me, my writing – Was I actually the writer I thought I was? Class after class was inspiring, Ms. Rich always pushing us to think and go beyond ourselves. I received praise at first, and then I was summoned to Ms. Rich’s office one day. She had been reading my work and judged it to be not serious enough. It was full of college angst, unrequited love, and misplaced desire. She knew I could do better, but I would have to read more widely. I sat there small in her office. I could not speak. I just listened and nodded. I wrote down the people she told me to read, I stood up, I walked out the door, head bowed. I left deflated but determined. I began to read. The one person she told me I must read – Edna St. Vincent Millay – I did not read as my single act of youthful rebellion. I read and I wrote, but I would not read Millay. I published lots of poems in the college literary magazine, and I started a literary magazine with a group of friends when I was in graduate school, and then in my late twenties the writing began to fade away and teaching took its place.
As a teacher, I made lots of room for my students to write. They would fill journal after journal of their ideas and stories. Some could write easily, filling blank pages with chapter after chapter of childhood adventure and fantasy. Some sat there, staring at the blank page, terrified. They were the ones who became my personal mission to support. We would start by drawing pictures first. Then labeling the pictures. Then telling about the pictures out loud to a friend. Then writing something down. We would slowly build detail, problem and solution, character’s feelings and motivation. Slowly… slowly… slowly… For the few who had all the ideas but the pencil was their foe, I would listen to them and write down their words. I asked high school students to become scribes to these students in their free time and watched as those relationships grew and blossomed. I began to see again the power of community. Having someone to listen was as important to having the desire to write. If I was encouraging countless students over the years to write, why wasn’t I writing anymore?
My answer was always TIME but I knew that wasn’t a good answer and that TIME would indeed run out. I was forty-years-old at the time, and I knew I had to become more consistent in my writing. I began to write children’s books and send them out to publishers. I got rejected. I got rejected again and again. I got good rejections. It didn’t matter.
I stopped writing. Or rather, I kept writing but I stopped sending out my work. I didn’t share my work with anyone. I became guarded. Then when I turned fifty, I decided to return to poetry. My husband and I would hike in the woods and he’d take photographs and I would write poetry. It was a lovely time. I felt good and confident about my poetry. It came back like an old friend. I could always count on it. And then I started reading Millay. First, I read her biography, Savage Beauty by Nancy Milford, and then I read every one of her poems. Adrienne Rich had been right. And I was so wrong. I laughed at myself. I wish I could have tea and cake with Adrienne and tell her but she had probably known all along.
For the last fourteen years, I’ve been writing for myself and sometimes for family. I wrote a collection of poems about my Grandpa Charlie for my mother just two years before she died. We hugged and cried together as she read them, and I was so happy I took the time to create them. I wrote poems for my each of my friend’s children when they were born. I created a picture book for my cousin’s young daughter about my Aunt Jo (her grandmother) who she had never met. I wanted her to know what a powerful person her grandmother was. I continued to write poems, took up photography too, and was generally satisfied. Kind of. Not really. I knew I needed connection. I started this blog a couple of years ago. I wrote. No one read it. Well – yes – one person read it, my friend Molly because I knew she would be positive and encouraging. But still I wasn’t consistently writing.
It wasn’t until this past April that I began to write consistently. I had been reading Ruth Ayers’ blogs and books for years. Last March, I commented on one of her posts. I wanted to show support. I wanted her to know there was a stranger that understood. To my surprise, Ruth responded to my comment and invited me to be part of her online writing community, SOS – Sharing our Stories. That day happened to be my 64th birthday. I wrote Ruth back and told her how much her words and invitation meant to me, and I began to write. To write consistently. To think of myself as a writer again.
And I began to step out and share my writing. Each week, when I publish a post, I send it to a small group of friends and family. The women who post on SOS have also become my readers and I am so thankful for them. I love reading their posts and am inspired by them. We are a group of strong women who love to write. We write about family triumphs and tragedies, we write about gardens and the discovery of grass spiders, we write about the joy of playing at seaside with a beloved nephew, we write about teaching, we share favorite recipes, and we write about our dogs and our favorite shoes. We write and that is what’s important. We write, and I am so grateful.
A Writer’s Dilemma
What is a simile
For the rainbow that forms
Beneath the waterfall
At the light of day?
What is a metaphor
For the red bird
That hops hopefully
Among the bare brambles?
How to personify
The indomitable, presence
In the morning sky
Announcing the day?
How to alliterate
The spider’s web glistening
High between forked branches
Overlooked and undiscovered?
The writer is left with ancient, brittle words
Which fall to her feet
And break and crack
Into sharp, uneven pieces.
Bending, she tries to salvage
One rough fragment,
One simple thought
To set free upon the page.
The next poem was written as a response to e.e. cummings’ poem, Song I.
I love his work. He helps children think about and gives them permission
to play with words. And as I’ve said before, it is always a good idea
to end with cake:
I have joined an open community of writers over at Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog. If you write (or want to write) just for the magic of it, consider this your invitation to join us. #sosmagic