The Many Ways We Need Each Other: What Writers Mean to Writers
I caught the red-ass over a post-it note. I even took a photo of it with my phone. It was blue, and stuck on my thirteen-year-old son’s poem he wrote for English class. The one clear sentence in his teacher’s handwriting said, “vague poetry is just not good poetry.” Heat bubbled in my belly, built up until I began to pace the house, front door to back. I watched from the kitchen as my son picked up the altered book in which his poem was written. He read the post-it note and then closed the book leaving it on the kitchen table. Half hour later, I watched him do it again. Would that sentence fragment lodge itself in his brain? In his writing hand? Would he close himself up, roly-poly style? Would he eventually forget the original insult only to believe himself simply untalented? What if I wrote that sentence on a poem written by a kid in the Detention Center where I teach workshops? The power of words can be frightening. I wanted to snatch his teacher bald, but knew I was overreacting a tad.A memory of a long ago party popped onto my inner screen and began to roll. There we were, acting like fools, listening to music, singing and dancing. After a particularly loud yet heartfelt rendition of Journey’s “Faithfully” I took a bow. A beloved friend lifted her drink and said, “Do the city a favor Kelly, and never sing again! My eardrums are shredded.” Everybody laughed, including me. I thought she must be right, so I did NYC a solid and kept my mouth shut. For years I did not sing aloud even to myself when I was surely alone.In 2013 I attended VONA, Voices of our Nation’s Artists, a residency/workshop for writers of color. After spending a week with generous, sharp witted writers, I returned home wrapped in a blanket of their support, and well wishes. Many of us found one another on Facebook or Twitter. There we congratulate and commiserate often.Last year I spent a month at Hedgebrook. There is no way to count the blessings of that stay. I even spent a night singing with my sister writers. That’s right, singing badly and loudly without reserve. Once again, I returned home with names and faces stamped on my heart. I knew exactly where to turn for advice about a blue post-it note on a poem.I didn’t go to high school or college, and spent many years teaching myself how to write in solitude. So, a real community is a blessing I don’t take for granted. They are a group of women (and some men) who are fiercely committed to their craft, and to lifting each other up any way they can. Surely they would tell me if I was making a big deal over nothing. I took it to the internet, wailed my story, and posted my son’s poem along with his teacher’s words.They flooded my inbox. I could see my son’s smile from the back of his head as he read comments from all over the country. Women writers supported his work without condescension. They made sure I knew that “vague poetry is just not good poetry” is not good critique. My writing community helped me craft a response to the teacher that dealt only with the sentence she wrote, and not her as a person. They held me up after I spoke with her over the phone. Congratulated me after we hashed it out with mutual respect. The teacher invited me to do a workshop for her class. I did one on revision and critique. These women mothered my son for me, with me. Every day, they help me have the confidence to be the kind of writer and person I know I can be. They give me the courage to sing. Below is Jackson’s poem. He said I could post it.
Where I'm From
I am from the winds
the molten iron that seeps
from arteries running
through the eyes of a madman
to the asphalt
reflecting the blood red sky
above it
I am from the waves that crash upon
black sand beach
the folds and crumples in a white duvet
I am from a stir-pot sizzling
with delicacies
I am from the ink sprayed across canvas
littering the walls
I am from a deep void born
by light and extinguished
by darkness
I am from the winds
I am from the fire
I am from the waters
I am from
the void
About the Author:
Kelly Clayton is a poet, and fiction writer who teaches writing workshops in local schools,The Lafayette Juvenile Detention Center, and Summer Youth Shakespeare Ensemble. A Creole with branches and roots from Louisiana since 1765. Her work has been published by Future Cycle Press, Delacorte Press, China Grove Press, among others. Kelly is a VONA/Voices, and a Hedgebrook Alumnae.
(Author photo by Teresa Burns)
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