Undeniable

When I was in third grade, Ms. Robinette sent me up to the fifth grade wing of Will Rogers Elementary to study poetry with the big kids. She recognized my quick and hungry brain, and figured this was one way to divert boredom.

I had recently picked out a pair of bright blue wooden clogs during a rare shopping expedition, and wore them everywhere. Once a week, I clopped through the empty, echoing halls – a thrill in and of itself – and took my place at the round table of slightly taller children. There I learned about wordplay and rhythm, alliteration and assonance, onomatopoeia and imagery. It was the best hour of school, by far. To this day, I still love e.e. cummings.

In seventh grade, writing a poem was the assignment. Who me?! Give me algebra where there’s a right and wrong! So sure that I simply could not do it – that it would never be good enough – that I plagiarized an obscure Cat Stevens song and turned it in. Later, my best friend Melvin was in charge of putting together a book of our poems and could not comprehend why I refused to participate.

Poetry kept knocking at my door. In my twenties, I typed up my mother’s verses for publication. And one day, words eased out of me – they would no longer be denied.

In my thirties, supposedly a choreography major, I enrolled in every single writing course at college. Essays, short and long fiction, poetry of every stripe, plays. I became the editor-in-chief of the student journal and wrote profiles and articles. I created books and art on printing presses. Attended bookfests. The flow was unstoppable.

So of course the Not-Good-Enoughs kicked in, big-time. Huge backlash. Crashed and burned. Allowed others to dictate my dance.

Don’t do that.

I moved to Olympia. Enrolled in a creative non-fiction class. Finished my PI novel (Shoulds are for Saints) and started another. Created books by hand. Crashed writers’ conferences. Taught at writers’ conferences. Trained as a DJ and hosted The Literary Lounge on a local radio station. Produced poetry events, including a Dead Women’s Poetry Slam, costumes required. Published the explosive essay “Free Love Ain’t” in the Seal Press anthology, Wild Child.

The flow was back.

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“traipse into stillness”* (a poem)

traipse into stillness 

barefoot in tandem 

circling growth, death 

earthbound spirals 

wax, wane 

excessive gestures fly

*from the upcoming book of poems and paintings, Dance First, Ask Questions Later