I hate applying for money. Writing biographical statements makes me feel like a prostitute. (And these awards don't pay nearly as well as that would.) Why can't they just recognize my intrinsic, unstoppable brilliance and give me the money, no questions asked?
An early writing teacher taught me that “life is the interplay of nouns and verbs; avoid unnecessary adjectives.” This advice rises again now as I sit here, another insomniac writing student, banging keys in sequence, backspacing, cut-copy-pasting, trying to create a convincing biographical statement.
Another teacher once remarked “your actions define you.” If these are true, then I am a writer--nothing more or less.
I do a lot of other things: read and study for classes, search incessantly for my next favorite poet or musician, sell wine at a grocery store while wearing a Hawaiian shirt, train horses, troubleshoot personal computers, build Web-sites, practice a Japanese energetic healing technique called Reiki, plan and lead worship/meditation services at my liberal church, date like a wolf searching for a territory, and wonder at the end of the month why I have just barely enough to cover my bills.
After any one of these activities, I sit and write. Every day, without fail, because I know that whatever else I do in life--work, love, or leisure--I’m supposed to write.
Ten years ago, during my freshman year at Boston University, I looked up to see a ring of light around a full moon. I felt a shift in the base of my skull like a door opening; I practically sprinted for my dorm with what became my first adult poem spilling from my head. I wrote for a couple of years before being admitted to my first poetry workshop.
I didn't do well in that class--a C+, which was the final mistake I needed to lose my full scholarship at BU. At that time, I had neither a cohesive voice nor a clue about where I was going in life. I eventually left BU, continuing to write, until one sunny morning in South Boston when I left my apartment to find my laptop had been stolen from my car.
I lost everything; I didn’t write again for years.
Four years ago, the end of a pivotal relationship re-opened that door at the base of my brain; silence and life experience had given me a voice. Three years of non-stop writing found me with a stack of rejection letters from varied publications and enough poems to go for a long shot--book publication without prior journal or magazine credits.
A friend brought me to the attention of a small, start-up press in Chicago. I didn’t hold my breath. But they took it.
I showed the early draft of Follow the Wolf Moon to retired UMass professor Alan Helms. He’d just finished leading a literary salon on Emily Dickinson at my church. Over coffee, Professor Helms commented dryly, “Well. There’s a lot of intelligence in here. But I don’t think you should publish this yet. Go to UMass Boston and take a workshop with Lloyd Schwartz.”
After two semesters of continuing education in EN301, I’d fallen in love with the UMass Boston creative writing program. Professors Schwartz and Peseroff, as well as my classmates, have been both challenge and inspiration, pushing my boundaries further than I could have by myself dreamed.
And so, ten years after my first attempt, I’m back in school full-time to finish my undergraduate degree and eventually pursue a Master of Fine Arts in writing. I’m putting myself through school full-time, giving up my nine-to-five corporate job for self-employment and six courses a semester.
The core of my writing is engagement. This process involves opening all five senses as well as my imagination to past, present, or future moments. I transcribe whatever walks through those doors.
The craft of writing is turning the results into stories, poems, reviews, and personal essays in which my choice of word, idea, and image allows me to connect with others. I want readers to say to themselves “oh yeah, that’s it!” when they read my work. For me, success will come from a combination of learning the craft well and believing in the power and relevance of my voice. That’s why I’m here. It’s who I am.