Do you know why you write what you write. Why you write poems, or journalism, or humor, or blog posts? Or fiction or plays or articles or works of scholarship? Is it like wearing corduroys or blue blazers or ponchos or espadrilles? What made me turn to poems in the tenth grade, why did I trust them? What do people like unreliable first person narrators? Sometimes I think we have almost no control over what we choose to write: that it chooses us. But that sounds so douchy to me. When I was very young, I compared a field of corn stalks pushing through a bed of snow to a whiskery beard. My mother explained that I had made a simile. Did that Hallmark moment brand me? I like to think so, I like to think that I pleased my mother in that moment. And that I had a special relationship to poetry books, those anorexic volumes, with their visible secrets. If I was a mark, I was made.
What’s your poison?
Filed under: Uncategorized |