The Writer I Never Meant to Be: Becoming a Poet
Ten years after earning my MFA, I'm still figuring out what it means to call myself a poet.
Hello, everyone!
It's Thursday the 29th of October, and Halloween is right around the corner. I got an early scare this week when a box full of my newest chapbook, Body of Memory, arrived on my doorstep this week.
I had no idea it was coming, and it was uncanny to see so many books with my name on the cover. It got me thinking.
I have four chapbooks. Two of them have won awards (you can read about that here and here). I've had poems published in literary journals I once wouldn't have dreamed of submitting to. And it's been ten years since I earned my MFA in creative writing, with a thesis in poetry.
So why do I still have trouble thinking of myself as a real poet?
I know, I know. The idea that you need a full-length poetry collection to call yourself a poet is ridiculous. I'd never apply that standard to anyone else.
But apparently, I have a different set of rules for myself.
The funny thing is, I never really intended to become a poet in the first place.
A poet before I knew it?
I've always loved poetry. In fact, I still have an anthology I put together when I was a kid, complete with a binding my mom had done for me at McWhorters. Inside are poems I loved enough to copy out by hand, alongside my own original work. I even illustrated the thing!
Looking at it now, you'd think I was destined to become a poet. But that wasn't how I saw my future.
I wanted to write stories. Novels. I imagined myself creating characters and entire fictional worlds, not spending hours rearranging a handful of lines to find just the right rhythm or image. Poetry was something I loved, but fiction was what I pictured myself writing.
Then life happened, as it tends to do.
When I was working on my MFA, I was also homeschooling my four daughters in rural Maryland. My husband worked long hours in another state, which meant most of the day-to-day responsibilities at home fell to me. Finding time to write was a challenge, to put it mildly.
A novel required a kind of sustained attention I struggled to find amid lessons, meals, activities, and everything else that comes with raising four children. Poetry, on the other hand, fit into the spaces I had.
I could work on a poem in short bursts. I could carry a few lines around in my head while doing other things. I could return to an image or a phrase whenever I found a little time.
So when it came time to choose a genre for my MFA thesis, I chose poetry. Not because I thought of myself as a poet. Because it was the writing I could do. I still took classes in fiction and creative nonfiction, and I figured a writer was a writer was a writer.
Right?
When "writer" became "poet"
After graduating, I started submitting poems to literary journals. In school, I'd been encouraged to send out my work, and since poems were what I had, poems were what I submitted.
Most were rejected. Some were accepted. I kept writing, reading, revising, and submitting. And somewhere along the way, something unexpected happened.
Instead of simply telling people I was a writer, I found myself saying I was a poet. It felt strange at first. Honestly, it still does. I continued writing fiction, of course. That dream never disappeared. But poetry was no longer just the kind of writing I could squeeze into an already crowded day.
It had become something I wanted -- and needed -- to do.
And the more poetry I wrote, the more I read. The more I read, the more curious I became about what poetry could do. Ten years later, I still haven't exhausted that curiosity. Not even close.
What poetry gives me
Something else has changed over the years: I no longer think about poetry primarily in terms of what I produce.
Don't get me wrong. I love finishing a poem that works. I love seeing my work published. It feels good to be validated. And winning a prize, opening that box of chapbooks? Pretty damn exciting!
But rather than simply something I create, poetry has become something that feeds me, whether or not I'm producing anything I can submit.
For one thing, it's changed the way I pay attention to the world.
Writing poetry encourages me to be present, to observe what's happening around me, and to notice details I might otherwise overlook. A peculiar turn of phrase, the way light falls across an ordinary object, a sound that brings back an unexpected memory.
Any of those things might find their way into a poem. Or they won't. Either way, I'm noticing. And I think that's one of the greatest gifts poetry has given me.
It's also made me a better writer across the board. The attention to language, imagery, rhythm, and precision carries over into my fiction, creative nonfiction, and even the content writing I do professionally.
But perhaps my favorite thing about poetry is the sheer pleasure of it.
Language can surprise us. A poem can turn in an unexpected direction, make a connection we hadn't considered, or reveal something through an image that would lose its power if we tried to explain it in ordinary prose.
Sometimes I sit down to write a poem thinking I know where it's going, only to discover that the language has other ideas. I love that.
And I love reading poetry for the same reason.
I read widely and voraciously, and I try to approach poems with an open mind. I'm always curious about the how behind the work. How did the poet create that effect? Why does that image stay with me? What happens if I try something similar in my own writing?
Not to imitate someone else's voice, but to explore possibilities I might never have discovered on my own. There's always something new to learn.
Still a student of poetry
One of the unexpected joys of my poetry life has been teaching it.
I'm taking a break from teaching poetry this year, and I miss it. Teaching has made me a better poet, partly because it forces me to slow down and examine things I might otherwise take for granted.
It's one thing to read a poem and recognize that something about it works. It's another to engage deeply with interested students in why it works, how the poet achieved that effect, and what another writer might learn from it. Those conversations push me to think more deeply about poetry and about my own process.
Students notice things I miss. They ask questions I hadn't considered. They approach language and subject matter in ways that challenge my assumptions. And they force me to think through my responses in ways nothing else does.
Still, I love being a student just as much. Whenever I can afford a workshop, I jump at the opportunity to learn from another poet.
Because ten years into this journey, I still feel as though I've barely scratched the surface of what's possible in poetry. I suspect I'll feel that way twenty years from now, too. And I hope I do.
So, am I a poet yet?
I have no idea. Which brings me back to that box of chapbooks sitting in my house.
Four chapbooks. A few awards. Lots of journal publications. Ten years since my MFA. Years spent reading, writing, revising, submitting, and teaching poetry.
And still, somewhere in the back of my mind, there's that little voice insisting I won't be a real poet until I've published a full-length collection.
I know how silly that sounds.
I know that publication credits don't determine whether someone is a poet. I certainly wouldn't tell another writer that their work didn't count because they hadn't published a book.
But knowing something and feeling it aren't always the same thing, are they?
Maybe having a full-length collection someday will change how I feel. Maybe it won't. What I do know is that poetry has become an essential part of my life in ways I never anticipated when I chose it for my MFA thesis all those years ago.
It makes me pay attention. It helps me see the world differently. It challenges me, surprises me, and reminds me of what language can do.
And even if I never publish another poem, I can't imagine giving up the reading, the writing, the experimenting, or the pleasure of discovering something new.
Maybe the label will eventually catch up with the life I'm living. In the meantime, I have poems to read. And, I hope, a few more to write.
What about you? Has your creative life taken you somewhere you never expected? I'd love to hear about it. Let me know in the comment or email me!
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