Not a Poet
When people ask me about my MFA degree and why I chose nonfiction as my genre, I always give the same two-part answer: when I started the program, I was desperate to take uncomfortable experiences and turn them into something good, something of value, and by the end of the program, I had figured out that putting these experiences on paper gave me the mental, emotional, and quite literal distance I needed from them. When my thesis was complete, once I could hold it, turn it over in my tired typed-out fingers, the experiences then lived outside of me, their heaviness transferred to 121 pages of standard 8.5” x 11” white paper instead of lurking in the dark, dewy caves behind my ribcage. I brought these experiences out into the world, into the light, examined them, poked them, prodded them. Sometimes they fought me, and sometimes I fought back. It was what I needed to do at that time to process. Well, that, and multiple years of therapy. But at that time in my life, much like being in a car and revving the engine, I had things I needed to say, and I knew how I wanted to say them. I put the pedal to the metal and drove full-speed into creative nonfiction.
But here we are now, eight years after completing my degree and a year into a global pandemic, and I find myself again full of things I need to say, but this time, I do not know how to say them. Now, I’m sitting behind the wheel, revving the engine only to have the car stall out, seemingly over and over again. I turn the key in the ignition, put it in gear, but the damn thing won’t move. It’s frustrating and time-consuming and uses up mental energy I do not have these days. So recently, I got out of the proverbial car, threw the keys across the lawn, screamed at the heavens, stomped my feet, and sat on the ground, arms tightly crossed, pouting. But then I thought, maybe it isn’t my ability to drive the car that’s the issue, maybe it isn’t me at all, but the vehicle. Maybe I need to try riding a bike instead.
Right on cue, the Muse arrived with a smile on their face (the Muse is gender-neutral, 100%) and handed me a shiny new 10-speed—wait, no, that’s not right at all. Handed me a sleek speedy road bike? Nope, scratch that, that’s completely false. Handed me a hand-me-down paint chipped wonky one-speed with an uncomfortable seat and an old, cracked horn mounted on the handlebars that sounds like a duck getting stepped on when you squeeze it. Yes, that’s better. That feels more accurate. That’s what I’ve been offered for my current creative transportation. Cool.
While I’m quick to tell people I’m a writer, I’m even quicker to tell them I’m not a poet—not by title, not by training or education, I’m not even well-read in the genre (sorry, poets). But I’m also not arrogant enough to fight the Muse and the creative process, as uncomfortable or as awkward the direction might be that they lead me. Or in this case, no matter how old, ugly, beat up, and wonky the ride is because I’ll happily take a poorly working bike over a broken down car any day.
Poetry has helped me express things I can’t say as of late. Either I don’t have the courage or the vocabulary or the nerve or the energy or the mental or emotional capacity to express what I’m feeling, but I still need to say things. So I’ve gone ahead and accepted this less than desirable gift from the Muse and gone for a bike ride. If I’m honest, it’s pretty awkward. My butt hurts from the seat, the front-wheel keeps pulling me to the left, and the pedals make this horrendous clanking noise on every single rotation. It’s not pretty, but at least I’m moving again. And I’ve seen some unbelievably gorgeous landscapes along the way that I might not have seen had I been traveling by car. There are no paved roads here, only small dirt paths through high wild grasses the color of warm sand. Beautiful vistas and secret alcoves full of color and light. Micro ecosystems thriving with the ebbs and flows of nature and life. Sometimes what you see, what grabs your attention, depends entirely on the speed you’re traveling and the path you take.
By definition, sure, a bike is transportation, but it’s not meant for me and my abilities. By definition, sure, I’m writing, but poetry is not my genre. Even this post is a response to the nonfiction call that feels so, so far away from me right now. I know I’ll get back behind the wheel again one day, but for now, I’m just going to enjoy the slower, albeit clunkier, ride, with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, and see where these dirt paths take me. I’ll let you know what I find along the way.