Read “The Writing Life: Beginnings, Pt. 1“
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I signed up for an American Literature class. The instructor didn’t ask about my brother, and I understood what I read, like The Mill on the Floss and Their Eyes Were Watching God. I formed opinions—my very own—and wrote response papers that earned A’s and positive remarks from the professor.
My journalism course, however, turned me off. Plus, I couldn’t shake that memory of standing at the doorway to fetch the photo of the boy who had been shot. I didn’t want that life, so I abandoned journalism and switched to social work. The professor discouraged students from becoming social workers unless they were absolutely sure. I wasn’t sure. So I switched majors again when I took a folklore class, because I loved the idea of capturing stories. But someone pointed out the limited career opportunities available to folklore majors, so I started to look for an alternative.
Then I took another English Literature class. Maybe I was reading Kafka’s Metamorphosis or Joyce’s The Dubliners, but I realized I loved literature when I understood the language. Stories, words, ideas, themes. That’s what I wanted to dive into with my remaining time in college. I don’t know what I’ll do with it, I thought, but this is who I am: an English major.
Toward the close of a semester, I walked with my boyfriend toward the campus bookstore, wondering aloud about my future.
“What do you really want to be?” he asked.
I blurted out, “A writer.”
“A writer? That’s fantastic! How about communications?”
“No, it’s too much like journalism and I hated journalism. I want to write creative things for magazines or books. I would love that.”
“Take a creative writing class.”
“Creative writing?”
“Sure! You’d write fiction and poetry.”
“But I don’t write poetry.” I remembered the sonnets in Dr. Weber’s Shakespeare class. “I don’t understand poetry.”
“It’s okay. If you take creative writing classes, you’ll learn to write.”
So I signed up for Introduction to Creative Writing. I read Writing Down the Bones and learned about free-writing. I filled notebooks with countless words, pen on paper without lifting it for ten minutes, hoping to turn up memories and ideas to work with. We started with fiction and I wrote a story entitled “Fences” that no one liked—not even me.
Then we read and discussed poems, mostly contemporary. Some rhymed, but most didn’t. I understood some of them, but not all. Nobody seemed to mind, though I began to second-guess my right to be in the room with other students who grasped the meaning quickly and sounded intellectual.
We began to write our own poems. “Write what you know, ” the instructor advised. “Write from your own memories. Write about your childhood.” So I wrote about dropping hay onto the heads of the cows as they leaned into the manger to eat. I wrote about my brother and his friends warning me that the devil lived in the window well. I wrote about sitting alone in the wooden pew watching the adults take communion at the Methodist church. I wrote about dancing in the barn loft as the afternoon sun streaked through the lone window facing west. And I wrote about my grandmother’s calico cat. None of my poems rhymed.
Every semester I signed up for another creative writing class. For one assignment, I wrote a poem inspired by a piece of art. I chose an Andrew Wyeth print my boyfriend’s mom gave me of a little boy sitting in a field. I invented a scene where the boy had run away, and the week I read it aloud, the instructor, who wore long peasant skirts and Birkenstocks, highlighted the last lines, reading them again, slowly. On my way across campus that afternoon, I pulled it out and read the last lines again to myself.
A few weeks later, I read aloud a poem I’d written about potatoes, and that same instructor leaned against the desk and listened. When I was done, I saw that she was staring out the window apparently deep in thought, and then she turned to us and expressed her delight in the poem’s exploration of work and play. “I love this!” she exclaimed. The poem said so much in so few lines, she said. “How did you do that?”
I just shrugged. All I did was write a memory about picking potatoes with my neighbor. I looked down at my poem and fiddled with my pen, afraid to look up at my classmates. After class was over, I walked across campus marveling that I had somehow created something strong and rich, something that held deeper meaning, something that delighted a poetry teacher.
Later in the semester, she asked me to stay after class. After the other students grabbed their backpacks and cleared the room, she leaned against the desk and suggested I submit some of my poems to our university’s undergraduate literary journal, Labyrinth. A literary journal sounded too fancy for me. I wrote poems about potatoes and window wells and communion and my grandmother’s calico cat. Still, I listened as she told me where to buy a copy. I thanked her, grabbed my backpack, left the room and headed straight to the student union feeling flushed, nerves prickling both arms. I found the current edition of Labyrinth sitting on a small table in the bookstore. I felt the slick cover and flipped through its pages, scanning some poems. I hesitated. It seemed reserved for people smarter and more academic.
Couldn’t hurt to buy it, though, so I plopped down my money at the counter and carried the journal back to my room. I found instructions for submissions printed on one of the inside pages, so with a wild fear surging all the way to my fingertips, I retyped my favorite poems and paused as I began to type my name. I decided to type “Ann” instead of “Annie.” I printed the poems and tucked them in an envelope. My earthy work in a literary journal? Crazy. And yet, I found the Labyrinth office and dropped off the envelope in a metal in-box marked “Submissions.”
The journal contacted me and asked to publish four. Four. A deep hush of awe, even shock, stunned me silent. Then I turned giddy. The publisher asked me for a bio, so I looked for examples from that last edition. They talked about why they write. Without over-thinking it, I scribbled out, “I write, because no one listens to me.” Within a few weeks, the next edition of Labyrinth came out and they sent me some copies. I pulled one out and ran my fingers over its slick cover. I flipped through and found my poems about the devil in my window well, communion, and my grandmother’s calico cat. My poem called “Runaway, ” inspired by that Wyeth painting, won top prize.
I told my parents about the journal and read my poems over the phone. I read my bio, too. They seemed upset and said they listened to me, so I apologized and said I was trying to be funny. They softened.
They laughed about my brother scaring me with the window well. We talked about communion and the big cross hanging in the sanctuary of the Methodist church. We remembered Grandma and the flowers she pressed to make bookmarks and cards, and how we saw her cat rub against her legs as we drove away from her house. And then, before we hung up the phone, Mom said, “We’ve never had a poet in the family.”
Photo by erink_photography. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post reprinted from Ann Kroeker, author of Not So Fast.
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Anthony says
A wonderful glimpse into this writing life at turns dark and at others resplendent. Thanks for sharing.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you, Anthony, for walking across campus with me to this point in my writing life.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Oh Ann, formerly Annie there is such a softness to your memoir voice. It clicks along at a pace like chalk on the board working out a calculus problem. Yet it is slow and unraveling, gently and perfectly paced too. Or maybe you make the reader hungry for more, and that too is THE gift we all long for. I love the last line. But then, you are not surprised. 🙂
Ann Kroeker says
Elizabeth, I use a plain, rather unadorned style compared with your lyrical voice, and I love that you compare it with my working at the chalkboard (though, calculus? Yikes!).
What’s interesting to me as I reflect back to those days is that I don’t think of myself as a poet at all anymore, yet it was my entree into the writing life. I think I had to be working in a genre completely different than my mom and dad’s (journalists) and brother’s (advertising). That way I could hear some family affirmation and encouragement to move forward with confidence, which was possible because of this different path I was on.
Megan Willome says
What a perfect, perfect ending. I’m cheering! It’s pouring and I’m cheering for Ann, the poet.
I never knew this part of you. I want more.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you, Megan! That was truly the moment I sat up straighter and believed I might be able to do this writing life. Thank you for feeling it with me, when Mom said that. It was a powerful moment, and Mom might not even remember it. It’s a reminder of how one simple little comment can change a person’s life.
L. L. Barkat says
I swear it, Ann. Again, I did not pay Elizabeth to say that about memoir 😉
And? I still remember you saying this, maybe in a comment box somewhere:
“I write, because no one listens to me.”
It contains worlds.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you, L.L. For listening.
Diana Trautwein says
This made me cry. In a very, very good way. Thank you, Annie. Because no matter what name you submitted on that form, Annie is still in there, pouring her heart into beautiful, simple, earthy words. This is just about my favorite thing I’ve ever read here, I think. And that’s saying something because I love this place. The last line did me in. Just did me in.
Ann Kroeker says
Oh, Diana! It means so much that you would slip in and read, and offer words of encouragement. Thank you. Thank you for listening. Thank you for believing the little poet is still in there, tapping into the truth inside her.
Laura says
Yes, yes–Megan’s right: perfect ending! And a wonderful telling too. I’m glad you found your voice and always grateful for the ways you share it with us. Poetry is a good way to be found.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you. And the ending of this piece turned out to be the beginning of my writing life. Endings are often beginnings. Maybe always?
Donna Falcone says
I am very late to the party, but here I am none the less… and so SO glad to have read your piece here.
The last line finished me. Just finished me. “And then, before we hung up the phone, Mom said, “We’ve never had a poet in the family.”
I love reading about how your journey into poetry and this writing life evolved… and how you don’t consider yourself a poet any longer yet it seems that you NEEDED poetry in a very deep way…. so much insight and I’m grateful for your sharing. It gives me hope somehow. But that last line… it just made me bawl. 😉
Donna says
I come from a family of artists and felt I never could compete so why try? Now I’ve stopped trying (to compete) and notice this surprising reaction from them, particularly my parents- pure support for my endeavors. I’m also surprised that it still matters as much as it does…. And that I somehow feel less lacking. I think that’s why your last line hit me where it did!
I wonder something….I hope you don’t find the question too intrusive…. Do you ever worry about writing about them? I’m always curious to know how people react to being written into pieces.
Ann Kroeker says
I have hesitated for decades, Donna, to write about anything regarding my growing up years. But I wrote this and had both my mom and brother read this before publishing it. It was a very good experience for all of us, I think. They learned something about me, and we know each other just a little bit better.
I’m glad you’re experiencing their support. WHat a wonderful surprise…and gift.
Ann Kroeker says
Donna,thank you for entering into my experience so fully. It means so much to be heard, all these years later.
Nancy Franson says
How did I miss this? I’ve been looking forward to reading Part 2 of your story. Thank you for saying out loud and on the internet that you, too, didn’t get poetry.
And, now I know the origin of the potato poem. And I sort of want to read the one about the window well.
L. L. Barkat says
You don’t perceive a Team trend here at Tweetspeak, perchance? 😉
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you for reading, Nancy. I didn’t get it. A lot of the tough stuff I still don’t get. And I think I read at an easy, surface level the first and second times through. Sometimes I need some hand-holding to see the deeper meaning, even now.
Donna says
A nice outcome for all of you… :). You were rewarded for your courage.
(I wonder how the early years would fly in print. Like a lead balloon I think! )
Ann Kroeker says
Perhaps. But I may write them anyway. 🙂
SimplyDarlene says
I want to know about the potatoes!
Miss Ann – I saw the link to this on FB tonight. I remember part 1 and have wondered about part 2. Apparently I didn’t go to detective school, aye?
That bit about writing because nobody listens, that IS my bit too. Out of the two adults I conversed with tonight, not one let me finish a full sentence without cutting me off, moving on to something else, or finishing my thoughts for me. PainFull. Ugh.
Thank you so much for this glimpse into the becoming writer Ann! Courage. Encourage.
Blessings.
Ann Kroeker says
Darlene, I give you…the potatoes: http://annkroeker.com/2013/09/19/food-fridays-poetry-potatoes/
And I’m so sorry no one listened to you. Ugh. I can cut someone off in my excitement, so I’m sure I’ve been guilty as the cutter-offer at times. I hope that I can recognize when I’ve done so, though, and ask forgiveness and invite the person to continue his or her thought!
Thank you for your encouraging words, Darlene, and you, too. Courage. Encourage. That’s you. Keep writing. We’ll listen.
Dolly@Soulstops says
Dear Ann,
I am so glad your teacher listened to you when you shared your poems and that you listened to her and submitted them to the Labyrinth….well done 🙂
Ann Kroeker says
Oh, Dolly, I’m so glad, too. Changed my life. Thank you for reading (and commenting).
Laura Brown says
Somehow I missed this one last fall. So much to like … The economical expression of how you changed majors and found one; the boyfriend’s advice to take a creative writing course (which may be the greatest legacy of that relationship); the teacher who embodied the effect of your words, and who pointed you on that scavenger hunt; the risk, the leap; the important self-renaming; the surprise and affirmation (acceptance on your very first submission!); the benediction of identity from your mother; and throughout, evidence that you have always been one to pay attention.
Shapes and Names. That was my college’s Labyrinth. I still have the copies where my work appeared.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you for these observations…you are one to pay attention, too.
Maybe Shapes and Names could make a Facebook appearance one day?