InsideAWord
Gold Member
I'm the student editor in chief of the literary magazine at my university.
We welcomed an award-winning poet to our university, but I honestly had never heard of him. But, since I knew he would host a workshop with any interested students before he read in front of an open forum, I brought some of my pieces to the workshop for some constructive feedback and criticism so I could improve.
First off, he did a reading from his poetry and prose. Then he comes to an excerpt that he wants to read from his epistolary novel that is in-progress. Then, he mentions how he had spent time in prison (12 years) for 7 felony convictions and that the letters were to a woman he knew that was currently in prison.
For anyone who doesn't know -- THAT'S A HUGE STRESSOR FOR ME.
I muscled it out for a bit because I wanted to hear what he had to say, and I had to behave while I was here since my professors had personally introduced me to him. I had a hard time breathing, my neck felt tense, I was restless as I listened to the discourses exchanged between himself and the female inmate. When he reached a section where the female inmate talked about how the other women in prison seem to lose hope and give up on life, I could feel tears stinging my eyes. I don't know whether it was because I was having emotional and physical flashbacks and memories reverberating throughout my chest, face, and neck, but I quietly excused myself to the bathroom.
Yeah, I cried a little bit for a minute. Big, swollen crocodile tears in front of the mirror. I filled up my water bottle and drank from it and actually whispered to myself, "Okay, get it together."
I went back. I don't know why -- I felt like I had to hear it. I had to prove something to myself. And, I figured, he would probably understand since I shared the same feelings about incarcerated women and the prison system that the girl in his letters did.
After he reads for us, the students, we start the workshop. A few students go then it comes to me. I read a few pieces out loud for him, one entitled "My Body" which is actually inspired by one of my favorite grounding techniques during panic attacks. It is obviously about PTSD.
He tears it up. Hahahaha. He said I did a good job, but he tore that poem up. He told me to revise it and that I'm trying too hard to fit the message of my poem in just one verse. I read him another one. He likes it and makes a few important corrections and begins to nitpick my style ("stop using 'like' in your poem" and "adverbs will kill you"). He tells me to hand over a stack of printed out poems that I had. He read them over after dinner and I could see him writing all over them. I'd rather have someone give me criticism and help me improve my writing rather than say, "it's good" -- that doesn't help me.
At the end of the night, after the giant audience that came to see him, I go up to him and ask him to sign my book. He said he wants to work with me -- that the poetry group he is apart of (a bunch of male poets who had been incarcerated) has been looking for female poets to talk and write about incarceration. Also, he wants me to keep in touch with him and keep sending him poems, even if they aren't about my trauma. He signed his e-mail and phone number in my book. He also said that I should send some pieces to the journal that he runs on the east coast in New Jersey.
I feel proud. And, although I don't identify myself with my trauma, it surely had enough of a horrific impact on me. I guess it's about time that something potentially good came out of it, and I'm so happy that I could and will use my passion for writing creatively and writing poetry to confront it.
DISCLAIMER : I didn't sleep last night because I was having flashbacks and too many body memories to sleep (most likely triggered by the readings), but I accepted that that was out of my control. That part did suck... but I wanted to cling to the good feelings for the night.
We welcomed an award-winning poet to our university, but I honestly had never heard of him. But, since I knew he would host a workshop with any interested students before he read in front of an open forum, I brought some of my pieces to the workshop for some constructive feedback and criticism so I could improve.
First off, he did a reading from his poetry and prose. Then he comes to an excerpt that he wants to read from his epistolary novel that is in-progress. Then, he mentions how he had spent time in prison (12 years) for 7 felony convictions and that the letters were to a woman he knew that was currently in prison.
For anyone who doesn't know -- THAT'S A HUGE STRESSOR FOR ME.
I muscled it out for a bit because I wanted to hear what he had to say, and I had to behave while I was here since my professors had personally introduced me to him. I had a hard time breathing, my neck felt tense, I was restless as I listened to the discourses exchanged between himself and the female inmate. When he reached a section where the female inmate talked about how the other women in prison seem to lose hope and give up on life, I could feel tears stinging my eyes. I don't know whether it was because I was having emotional and physical flashbacks and memories reverberating throughout my chest, face, and neck, but I quietly excused myself to the bathroom.
Yeah, I cried a little bit for a minute. Big, swollen crocodile tears in front of the mirror. I filled up my water bottle and drank from it and actually whispered to myself, "Okay, get it together."
I went back. I don't know why -- I felt like I had to hear it. I had to prove something to myself. And, I figured, he would probably understand since I shared the same feelings about incarcerated women and the prison system that the girl in his letters did.
After he reads for us, the students, we start the workshop. A few students go then it comes to me. I read a few pieces out loud for him, one entitled "My Body" which is actually inspired by one of my favorite grounding techniques during panic attacks. It is obviously about PTSD.
He tears it up. Hahahaha. He said I did a good job, but he tore that poem up. He told me to revise it and that I'm trying too hard to fit the message of my poem in just one verse. I read him another one. He likes it and makes a few important corrections and begins to nitpick my style ("stop using 'like' in your poem" and "adverbs will kill you"). He tells me to hand over a stack of printed out poems that I had. He read them over after dinner and I could see him writing all over them. I'd rather have someone give me criticism and help me improve my writing rather than say, "it's good" -- that doesn't help me.
At the end of the night, after the giant audience that came to see him, I go up to him and ask him to sign my book. He said he wants to work with me -- that the poetry group he is apart of (a bunch of male poets who had been incarcerated) has been looking for female poets to talk and write about incarceration. Also, he wants me to keep in touch with him and keep sending him poems, even if they aren't about my trauma. He signed his e-mail and phone number in my book. He also said that I should send some pieces to the journal that he runs on the east coast in New Jersey.
I feel proud. And, although I don't identify myself with my trauma, it surely had enough of a horrific impact on me. I guess it's about time that something potentially good came out of it, and I'm so happy that I could and will use my passion for writing creatively and writing poetry to confront it.
DISCLAIMER : I didn't sleep last night because I was having flashbacks and too many body memories to sleep (most likely triggered by the readings), but I accepted that that was out of my control. That part did suck... but I wanted to cling to the good feelings for the night.
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