Writer

I'm a writer, you'd say, and I'd think, Well, when was your novel published? Or have your essays appeared in The New Yorker? No? Well then you are middle aged, likely recently divorced, and have been reading Julia Cameron.

Then last month I told some friends of ours—good friends: people we see every week—about the poem that was accepted for publication this winter*, and they were surprised. Have you always liked to write? they asked. Subtext: You write? Really?

Well, yes. I write. Have scrawled in notebooks ever since I discovered that spiral-bounds could be purchased by the stack at the grocery store. Have considered it a practice ever since I ripped through Writing Down the Bones in a public library armchair one Saturday in high school. The best part of my job is the writing. The best part of my plans is what I'll write next.

And yet, somehow, my writing is a surprise to the best of my friends. How can I have kept this a secret?

Trying to bring in a little extra income, I'm working on picking up some contract writing jobs. Newsletters, brochures, whatever editing work I can find. Part of getting this going is updating my résumé. Opening a separate business checking account. Making business cards. On those cards and those new checks, I'm having printed, under my name, Writer. Call me middle aged. (I'm 34, thanks.) Say it's wishful thinking. Damn the self-help books. Question my credentials. Whatever. I write. Have always written. Will always. Am, have been, and really always plan to be. A writer.


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*Accepted for the spring issue of this journal, and it's still not out. Come on! Spring is here! Even in Minnesota!

Just as I was beginning to get all cranky about my artistic barrenness...

I found out this afternoon that another poem of mine has been accepted for publication. Publication, like, on paper. Once again: in the grand scheme of things, not a huge deal. But in my little poem-writing life, very exciting. Yeee haw. What a great way to mark the Solstice.

White Petals on the Road

The catalpa trees are blooming here. Do you know catalpa trees? They have heart-shaped leaves larger than my hand and, right now, big clumps of white blossoms.

I took a (fantastic) poetry class a few years ago, and the teacher told how she drove by a catalpa tree just after it had shed all its petals, and, wanting to remember the image, she wrote something wordy about fallen white petals blanketing the dark road. And then she forced herself to take out the bullshit. What is that, really? It’s white petals on the road. And she used those words in a poem much later. Seeing the catalpa trees blooming reminds me to keep things simple, to ask, What is that, really? and write down the answer.

Tickled

So, a poem of mine was published!

I'm too proud to remain entirely quiet about it here. I know in the grand scheme of things (you know, the riches one can eventually earn through the craft of poetry) this is not a huge deal, but it's the first time a poem of mine has made it out into the world, and I'm thrilled about it. And the fact that the other writers featured there seem to be, like, actual poets with actual respectable other publications, makes it all the more exciting.

(edited to remove link)