Tell me I was wrong that day

out there among the strawberry fields.

No one knew we sneaked out

mercilessly drawn to the beckoning of wheels.

The road turned too fast. I couldn’t stop the skid.

I sprained my wrist, you skinned a knee.

Keep it a secret, don’t tell I said.

And you didn’t. You never told on me.

…     …     …     …     …

Last week I talked a little bit about building my brand.  After I had posted it and engaged in conversation with fellow bloggers I was reminded how little of my personal life I bring into this blog.

But how can I talk about myself, the pain and miracles that have shaped me as a writer, the losses and the shameful mistakes without losing my edge? The biggest reason I have persevered in this writing game, endured countless setbacks is because I turned away from an enormous chunk of my life.  I simply don’t go there in my mind. If bad memories do try to visit, I veer quickly and make a detour through the nether worlds that bloom in my mind, that spill upon paper.

But if I continue to prevent myself from dipping my quill into my backstory, then I look about as plain and flat as a scrap of cardboard. The good stuff is easy to flaunt and shout-out, but I have to give due credit to the bad stuff, too. Because without the mistakes and the misery, I wouldn’t be doing any of this at all. I do believe that.

So, with that knowledge guiding me, I wondered about the most symbolic, indirect form of writing that expresses emotion, conveys messages, and breathes for you.

Poetry.

Now, I’m not a poet. Not truly. But lately I’ve been dabbling, my interest sparking most recently through Julia’s Place. I found that when I write poetry I am journeying down a route that I once refused to explore. Some of it has been like walking through briar patches; some of it is like playing hide-and-seek.  A lot of it’s like drowning, struggling for a foothold.

I’m going to try to bring my personal life into this blog through my poetry. I doubt I’ll follow up the poems with an essay on the people or experiences that inspired the pieces. I think I’ll just let them speak for themselves, then segue into my usual utterances about writing in general.

And maybe, someday, my writing self and I will meet in the middle.