Cuts and bruises—why I write
I’ve never written a blog, it’s always been a dream of mine. But as a mother of three with a list of time consuming hobbies, I’ve never taken the plunge. For my very first blog post I’ll tell you how I got to this moment on my figurative diving board.
Right before Covid hit, I’d become fed up with the world. I received some devastating news—suddenly my twin boys had a life expectancy lower than any child should. It’s the kind of message that makes you think differently about your life and forces you to look baldly at it. You start to think about all the things that fill a life. What will my boys miss out on? How can I cram as much love and enjoyment as I can into their little 3-year-old hearts?
It was a lot. My boys already received an ASD diagnosis and they weren’t kidding when they said, when it rains, it just rains harder. I also started thinking about my life. How I’d avoided a hobby and joy and dream of mine for years—to be a writer.
Like most, the craft started in me at a young age. My first published poem, “The Cut,” explored a ruthless wound I endured and the emotional implications. Little did I know at six, I was already creating my brand—dark, brooding, and quirky—which made sense. I was living outside a small coastal town in Alaska in a one-room cabin with no running water, little electricity, and going to a school in a Russian village. I was “stubbornly shy,” content to tell myself stories as I played in the woods and snow with my growing accumulation of brothers (five in total).
The stories accumulated too, and when opportunity arose in our tight little community of teachers, artists, carpenters, and fisherfolk, I would stand on a stump and tell my epithets to anyone who would listen. I was also inspired by the folklore and songs of the Russian Old Believers. One spring day, as I walked home from school and the snow melted, running in rivers down our dirt road, I was memorizing a Russian poem about flowers. I was so taken with those words, I decided at nine that I needed to become a poet. My tween to teen years were tumultuous–changing houses, changing towns, changing parents–and my journal became my outlet for thoughts, feelings, and very melodramatic poetry.
This quiet hobby continued through to college and when I was about to transfer to my alma mater, UC Santa Cruz, on a whim I took a poetry class. The teacher urged me to continue on and without regret I changed my major from psychology to poetry overnight, and was accepted into their competitive creative writing program. That may have been one of the happiest times in my life. Oh yes, I was partying and enjoying my freedom, but also, for the first time, people were actually reading my poetry. Though I idolized Emily Dickinson, I was no longer a closet poet.
But it’s hard for poets to live off words, and there were a lot of changes. And it took over 15 years for me to pick up my pen again. I had dabbled here and there, writing poems on the backs of grocery lists while I nursed my children. Jotting down bits of dialogue with dough covered hands, while a sourdough loaf rose on the counter.
After I learned about my sons, I knew I couldn’t let my dreams just slough off anymore like a callus that wears away. This was going to be a fresh “cut.” So I wrote my first novel, typing away at night. At first, it was very much a secret, until one evening my husband said, “Are you writing a book?” I looked up nervously from my keyboard and nodded. And then I began to acknowledge it myself: Yes, Poppi, you are a writer.
I had friends read it. It was way too long. It was all for me. But I wasn’t satisfied, so I wrote another book and then another. I wrote a series just for myself. When I look back on it, I realize I was putting myself through a writing school of my own, proving this poet could write novels. (I’m still learning!) I’d heard you needed to write a million words before you hit your writing stride…and I was making my way. I started researching (one of my favorite pastimes) how publishing works and decided I was going to try and get the first one in some sort of shape. Because why not? So, with lots of trial and error and help from friends, I learned to query. I joined Twitter and started writing pitches and entered as many pitch contests as I could. I went through nearly 10 drafts of my book and I did get some full manuscript requests but no offers.
Meanwhile, I didn’t stop writing. I was addicted. I loved creating my own worlds and characters. There were several reasons I enjoyed it so much, but I think a big one was that I had control. In my life, I couldn’t change the things that would happen to my sons. I couldn’t change the future, but I could decide what horrible trouble my characters could get into. And, despite their emotional upheaval, I could decide how they would come out on the other side. Maybe, my stories give me hope too. Despite our “cuts,” we need meaning in life. I needed that—in film, theater, art, poetry, novels—and I wanted more than anything to contribute.
Until next time friends, when I share my “how I got my agent” story. Thanks for reading! -P