Brushing off the rust - An Introduction

I write every day. Some days, all day long. Chances are though, unless you are extremely wealthy, own a foundation, or sit on a corporate philanthropy board - you probably have not and will not see anything of note from me on paper (and if you did, chances are it would be signed by someone else). That's okay. I like what I do. I like to think it does some good. And, it lets me use what I've got and what I like to make (a little bit) of a living.

But twice in the past month or so I've been reminded, in a pointed way, that I used to write differently than I do now. I used to write different things for different audiences.

The first was a message from the daughter of my 11th grade English teacher, the supervisor of the high school literary magazine that I edited and contributed fantastically embarrassing works of teenage poetry to. It was the 90s - the days of the "poetry slam" - which, you may or may not wish to remember, depending on whether you ever participated in one. Anywho, this young woman (who somehow is no longer eight but is in fact married and working for the National Archives) asked me if I would contribute a piece to the final edition of "Writers Block" (yes, that's what we called our little rag) upon her mother's retirement. I said sure. Of course I did. I wondered how a proposal on protecting environmental flow written for a major bank would translate into that format. Would they get a kid from the advanced art class to illustrate it? Would they include the budget? Hmmm.

The second was striking up an acquaintance with a fairly renowned author and poet who, after a couple glasses of wine and an email exchange, agreed to read something of mine and offer his thoughts. I suppose I could have sent him a description of what my organization could do with a $25,000 donation, but somehow I don't think that's what he had in mind. Me either, actually. Really, I was hoping for some kind of a sign - a reading- on whether I still "had it." (Assuming I ever did). "It" being - what? - the juice, I guess. The touch, the ability, to use words deliberately and creatively to make art.

I was in a meeting with a colleague on Friday and I made the analogy between writing a good donor report and writing a good poem. It's about being succinct and specific. Choosing a very well-defined window into something much larger, bringing to life--for the reader--what is outside the frame, just beyond view. I don't know if that's right, but I think there's something to it.

This is all a rather long preamble to a fairly straight forward objective. I'd like to start writing creatively again. Because I think it will help me be better at what I do - sure. But more because I miss it, plain and simple. Maybe that instinct has become a shriveled, white, floppy appendage - but damn it, it's still attached. I'd like to pump some blood into it and see what it can do.

The blog format is intentional (what else could it be? Oops, I accidentally wrote a blog? duh). What I mean is, well - remember my allusion to the poetry slams of yore? That's how I cut my teeth in this craft. For me, writing has always been a public act... I can't do it in the absence of a reader (or at least a potential reader). So I hope this finds a few, who are will to watch me stumble around for a while as I try to find my legs. I hope you'll let me know what you think. And then, I hope you'll offer me a book contract (just kidding).

That's long enough (too long, probably) for a first post. The next one will be nothing but poem. I promise. I even have one lined up. I'm gonna try to stick with this, so I hope you'll stick with me. Thanks.

Jessie