One Day, Everything Was Different

In June, I attended a writers retreat and workshop for 8 days. It was the first formal instruction I had pursued in writing ever, and was meant to help me decide if I wanted to pursue a graduate degree in creative writing. 

After my 3rd day, I knew this was for me. Each night I stayed up later and later into the night, writing. On my 6th night, I wrote something that made me cry when I reread it the next morning. There is power in words, and power in my words. I want nothing more than to cultivate and tend to the gardens and sandboxes of my creative soul, through writing. 

I've always been an artist. Then I was a writer through the end of high school. Then I was an artist again in college. I wanted to silence myself after my truth hurt others but won me a college scholarship. I wanted to hurt no one else with my ability to craft moving stories and my pursuit of sharing the truth with the world. 

I silenced myself, only took the required English Comp 1 & 2, and threw myself full-fury into long nights in the dark-room, the printmaking studio, the painting studio. I made some beautiful work. Work that effected others and work that others asked for permission to hang in their homes. That part of my life is back here. 

But after college, after dabbling in amusing sketches and realizing I was ready to use the full force of my voice again, I started writing. I started writing poetry. I found my voice in poetry because the power of fragmented thoughts and emotions seemed like dipping my feet into using words again. I didn't have to express a fully-formed absolute, because I haven't to confidence to be so declarative. 

Poetry allows me to suggest a reality, without insisting upon it. 

As I nurse my atrophied and stunted writer's muscles back into strength, there is a much bigger story than poetry trying to escape the confines of my soul. I hope to use this blog to share thoughts, feelings, impressions, of coming to terms with this new identity as a writer.