The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Ink.

About four months ago, I noticed a flyer in my local library regarding an open ages poetry contest. I thought that since the library seemed to be endorsing it, it might make sense to enter. There was no entry fee, no obvious strings, so I sent in one of my shorter pieces in the hopes it might be noticed. Yesterday, long after I'd forgotten about entering, a very official letter showed up in my mailbox, and it was a thick envelope which is always a positive thing if it's not from the credit card company. I saw the return address and knew it was from the contest panel, and I held my breath as I ripped into the envelope like a hungry lion does a gazelle. Could it be, I wondered, that I have actually managed to write something that others feel is worthy of print and acknowledgement? According to the letter, someone did, and I was asked to sign a release form and forward my consent for them to print my poem in an anthology. If I wanted my biography included it would be done for a small fee, but it was not necessary and no payment was required for the poem to be published.

For about five minutes, I was elated, until common sense took over. Anthology? As in, several unknown poets and their unknown work? Was my work strong enough to merit being published? Had I left a little of my soul in the words or was it just 'okay'? I quickly discerned that this was a vanity press, and I had to let go of my pride almost as soon as I had grabbed it. Sure, they'd print it for free, but I would have to buy the actual anthology, and when I entered the ISBN numbers of the other anthologies into different websites, nothing came up. M. said that if I signed the release, at least I could say I have been published, but after thinking about that for a second or two, maybe even less, I ripped up the letter and the consent forms and let the whole thing go. If ever I am fortunate enough to be published, I want it to be because I am actually good, not because I am available and bothered to enter a contest. I need to be certain that what I put out there is good enough for myself, and I'm not there yet. I want a 'real' magazine, with 'real' writers judging me. It will be the only true measure for talent, I think. I am not someone who will settle for my name in print. I'd rather feel worthy of the ink.

If someone had asked me five years ago if I thought I was a decent poet, I would have said 'maybe'. Now, after reading my older work, I see that I wasn't. I tried too hard to sound like I was writing from a long gone era, and the words were amateurish, lacking any real depth. I seemed to specialize in love poems, which are my least favourite to be honest, because it's a rare thing to read one which is in any way moving. Most are saccharine, sophomoric jibber jab, and I can never find anything inspiring or moving in any of them. I try to steer away from that kind of poem, except, being a woman who finds love itself to be delicious and tingly, I tend to find myself fumbling through the torture of writing poetry about it. Mostly, I stick to writing about its disappointments, but when I do make a concerted effort to write about my happiness in it, I mess it up. M's always been better at that kind of thing than I am. I doubt very much I'll ever write a love poem which will ever do justice to the feelings I have for him.

Even today, I have my doubts about my skill level when it comes to writing. I don't say this in a faux self-deprecating sort of way, I honestly don't think I'm where I need to be to call myself 'decent'. Over the last few years, particularly the last year, I have read more poetry than I have in the years preceding them, and I have been shocked by how absorbed and inspired I've been. I love poetry, but it's a new love, a shy love, the kind that reminds of when the soft touch of finger tips causes a jolt in all the good places. It doesn't take much to wow me, you see. I am unsure about my own attractiveness, though, maladroit in my movements and nervous about making any proclamations to the ones I love.

I know what I like, but don't know how to express it without coming off green and girlish. The raw material I favour doesn't need my gushing because that would cheapen it. The dirty words I nod my head at would lose their power if I raised my fist and gave them a 'hell, yeah'. I like my poetry quiet and private, in the dark, swirling in my bathwater or under the covers where it's always intimate. Even when reviewing here, I feel awkward when trying to talk about what I feel or interpret in the words of the writer. I don't want to come off as a clumsy reader, in that I might be missing the writer's intent, but I also don't want to come off as though I didn't read the work, or that I didn't respect it enough not to break it down and really get into the meat of it. It's tough knowing what the writer actually wants to hear in regard to their work, whether or not they're okay with you pointing out the grammatical errors, or the fact that there's nothing interesting about their work at all. I also don't like to give negative reviews, because I don't think that many people would want to know the rough stuff, even if it would help them strengthen their skills. The fact that we all post here is a sign that we want approval, right?

I've received bad reviews, but have slowly come to appreciate them if they're written in a tactful and helpful way. If the reviewer appears to be giving 'constructive' criticism, and I know they actually have some experience by way of writing, I will be more receptive to their thoughts. I do not, however, have much patience for the negative reviews from people who make no attempt to understand what they're reading, or who can barely spell. That's just odd.

So, I didn't send the release to 'publish' my work, because I don't believe I'm good enough, yet, to be legitimately published. I don't know how it is that I can see this, but cannot see my way to writing at a level I want to eventually write at, but there it is. I'm not where I want to be and I don't want any shortcuts, which is unusual for me, if you think about it.