On writing and me and where I go from here
I have been a writer my entire life. My first publication came in third grade, when the class published a newsletter. My audience was 30 kids and, possibly, their parents. I don't remember the specifics of the article, but I do remember one moment of editing, when my teacher changed the sentence, "Each student made up Indian names for themselves" to "Each student gave themselves Indian names." Factually speaking, her edit was incorrect, because we were never given guidelines or resources for finding actual native American names. We made them up, based on what we'd read in some book or seen in some movie. I remember it irked me. Yes, in third grade, I was capable of being irked. About being edited. Oh, the irony.
My next publication was on a plaque. I had a crush on my junior high school art teacher. It was a weird-ass crush because it was not just a crush. He was also sort of my father substitute (my father had died two years before). Being a tween, my conflicted, confused reaction to my attractive, insanely talented teacher was pretty characteristic of the age. I wrote a poem about him. Somehow, someone in authority at the school found the poem and asked permission to use it on a plaque he was given as a farewell gift. The year I graduated to high school was the year he left to teach at a local university.
After that, I wrote reams of poetry through high school and college. Starting in junior high school, I wrote what we came to call fan fiction. In college, the short stories became original work. I went into publishing as a profession. I sold my first short story three years out of college on first submission. That was the case with the next three stories. Poetry continued. I took a certificate program at University of Washington. Thereafter, some of my poetry was published (in Asimov’s among other places). The writing eventually took a back seat to the editing (though it never stopped). I sold more stories.
The last couple of years, there's been almost no writing at all. What little I've tried has been almost painful. Rejection, somehow, has gotten harder to take rather than easier. And I just . . . just stopped. Except for occasional forays on Live Journal, there's been nothing. A lot of the lack of creativity has had to do with depression. As I’ve written about here before, for a while I was surrounded by people with cancer, which took me back to my core trauma (my mother’s death) and pretty much paralyzed all of my art-whether it was writing or making jewelry or photography or singing.
I began thinking recently that I really need to write again. Fiction feels hard right now; it feels sensitive and sore, too hot and painful to touch, like it’s a big part of the wounds of the summer and fall. So, I’m taking a page from Inigo Montoya (who took a page from Vizzini): When the job goes wrong, you go back to the beginning. I’ve pulled out my copy of A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and started to read and take notes. I’ve also started to write each morning, a couple of pages of whatever comes. I’ve had a couple of ideas for poems. I’ve been looking over older work, wondering why I didn’t submit some of the pieces I’m seeing now with fresher eyes. I guess we’ll see what happens from here.
My next publication was on a plaque. I had a crush on my junior high school art teacher. It was a weird-ass crush because it was not just a crush. He was also sort of my father substitute (my father had died two years before). Being a tween, my conflicted, confused reaction to my attractive, insanely talented teacher was pretty characteristic of the age. I wrote a poem about him. Somehow, someone in authority at the school found the poem and asked permission to use it on a plaque he was given as a farewell gift. The year I graduated to high school was the year he left to teach at a local university.
After that, I wrote reams of poetry through high school and college. Starting in junior high school, I wrote what we came to call fan fiction. In college, the short stories became original work. I went into publishing as a profession. I sold my first short story three years out of college on first submission. That was the case with the next three stories. Poetry continued. I took a certificate program at University of Washington. Thereafter, some of my poetry was published (in Asimov’s among other places). The writing eventually took a back seat to the editing (though it never stopped). I sold more stories.
The last couple of years, there's been almost no writing at all. What little I've tried has been almost painful. Rejection, somehow, has gotten harder to take rather than easier. And I just . . . just stopped. Except for occasional forays on Live Journal, there's been nothing. A lot of the lack of creativity has had to do with depression. As I’ve written about here before, for a while I was surrounded by people with cancer, which took me back to my core trauma (my mother’s death) and pretty much paralyzed all of my art-whether it was writing or making jewelry or photography or singing.
I began thinking recently that I really need to write again. Fiction feels hard right now; it feels sensitive and sore, too hot and painful to touch, like it’s a big part of the wounds of the summer and fall. So, I’m taking a page from Inigo Montoya (who took a page from Vizzini): When the job goes wrong, you go back to the beginning. I’ve pulled out my copy of A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and started to read and take notes. I’ve also started to write each morning, a couple of pages of whatever comes. I’ve had a couple of ideas for poems. I’ve been looking over older work, wondering why I didn’t submit some of the pieces I’m seeing now with fresher eyes. I guess we’ll see what happens from here.