Thoughtful Sunday: Why I Write Poetry

Thoughtful Sunday: Why I Write Poetry

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Mariah Wilson’s Logo Design for Sleeve
  • I feel like Saturdays and Sundays will be a mixed bag of things, from guest posts, to interviews, to stuff about me as a writer.

I never saw myself writing poetry. Ever. Back when I was at Georgia Regents University (a name I detest since the school was re-named out of vanity), I took a creative writing class with a professor whom will remain unknown out of respect. I took this class because I wanted to learn how to write poetry. I wanted to understand poetry beyond the canon of classical works literature students must read that I couldn’t enjoy, as I had to do a myriad of read-throughs to understand these poems. Thus, at the time, I thought poetry had to be complicated. So when we received assignments for poems to write, that is what I did–I made them complicated, and the results were horrendous.

I attribute 100% of the blame to the professor, who had no idea how to even teach poetry. We didn’t study the types of poetry one could choose from, from sonnet to free-form to haiku. We had no creative writing textbook. We weren’t given any pointers what-so-ever about writing our own poems. Workshops were unhelpful, as the students were just as clueless, and we were never given any guidance on how we could critique a piece of writing. When we received feedback from the professor, it was vague and awful. Next to a particular line, he would write “a stone,” meaning we could turn that line of poetry over and find more beneath it. That was the most unhelpful garbage ever, so I never learned how to truly write poetry.

Then I switched colleges due to my erratic mental health, which is still erratic to this day. I attend Columbia College of Missouri and take their online courses. I decided to take creative writing again, and I learned so much more. We were actually given a textbook on how to write creatively. My previous class had no such textbook. We also had textbooks to read poems and short stories from. We had discussions about what we thought worked and didn’t work, as it related to our creative writing textbook. Workshops still weren’t helpful, but the students were complete beginners, and I am not, so they stuck, hardcore, to the rules of writing I abandoned a few years ago. At least the professor gave us guidelines.

This creative writing class was MUCH better. I learned poetry doesn’t need to be complicated. The best poems are ones easily understood in a first read-through. I also learned this from Mariah Wilson as well. She was–and is–my mentor throughout this class. The professor’s feedback was so simple for the poems, but they made a world of difference. It was ACTUAL feedback. He would say, “This poem has a lot of potential. I think this poem would work much better with more enjambment” or whatever he felt was best for that particular piece. And you knew what he meant and could apply it. So simple, yet so effective. I only listened to his feedback and disregarded students’ feedback because it was obvious they were trying TOO hard to criticize a piece of work. I’m grateful I re-took creative writing (earning an A :D), because this is when I fell in love with poetry.

Even so, I still didn’t see myself publishing it. Then I experienced a recent curve ball, which has triggered my PTSD horribly. I won’t go into this. Poetry suddenly became an appealing escape for me, so I wrote. I then decided I had so many ideas for poems that I might as well write a collection and seek publication for it.

I ravenously began to devour poetry, especially from my American Literature II class, where poetry is a huge chunk of what we read. I’ve also finished reading Mariah’s We Walk Alone, which I beg you buy. It is incredible. Rachel Thompson is also an amazing novelist/essayist/poet. I recommend both of her books you can find on her Amazon Author page. I implore you to check out her work as well, as it inspired my collection that will include a novella and 36 poems. I do have a publisher in mind in which to submit this work to, one who reached out to all AEC authors.

I now write poetry because poems can be me. I am poems. I love being a novelist first and foremost, but it’s in bad taste for an author to insert herself into the novel she’s writing, unless it’s a nonfiction piece. With poetry, however, you can lay all of yourself down into a piece of poetry, which is exactly what I did in every poem I wrote. The novella, however, is a bit more complicated. After all, it’s about a young girl named Alexandria living in an exaggerated 19th-century mental hospital. Perhaps it isn’t exaggerated, but mental hospitals began to improve around her time. The first two parts have been published, and you can go to my bio to read those. But they are going to be revised. I have not gone through what Alexandria will go through, but it still fits with the overall theme of my collection.

Poetry is my catharsis, my purging of feelings.

I am so proud to now call myself a poet along with being a novelist. Maybe even an essayist in the future. 

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Victoria’s Asylum of Maggots

Victoria’s Asylum of Maggots

This was published in issue 4 of Sorean: A Gothic Magazine. There is also a part 2, and I may continue it with a part 3 and whatever else I can conjure from this mind of mine so that way all of you can have a taste of my writing style. Sorry for the one column, but I just copied and pasted it directly from the magazine because I lost the thumb drive this was on a long time ago, so I have no copies myself. Here we go!
VICTORIA’S ASYLUM OF MAGGOTS: PART ONE
Alice, from American McGee’s Alice: Madness Returns. This is similar to what Victoria faces.
Unwanted wife, suicidal, prone to hysterics,
abnormal–that is what my chart reads. My
mind says otherwise. I am an unwanted wife
who never wanted to be one. My husband is
abusive, so hysterics are to be expected.
And suicidal is normal when ones husband beats her for forgetting to put out his tie.
As for my abnormality, I see nothing wrong
with pouring boiling tea on my husband’s
crotch.
That’s not what Bethlem Royal Hospital, or
Bedlam as we victims call it, would have me
believe. If I’m considered mad now, I’d like to
see just how mad I am when someone decides
to let me out.
Four gray walls stare down at me. An eave
sits above my head to keep me down. There is
no window, no light. The floor is marred wood.
A layer of dust sits like a quilt, tucked neatly
into the cracks of the floor. Moss creeps across
neglected walls and grows through fissures.
Unknown creatures twist and turn in the walls,
as well as my nightmares.
I have been staring at these walls for the
past two weeks. I have not seen the light in
four months. I don’t know what the sun feels
like, or what the flowers smell like, or what the
sky looks like anymore. Wetness devours my
body in the form of bodily fluids, and ice strips
away my skin, replacing it so that I am forever
shivering. My hair is a pile of brambles. My bed
sheets haven’t been changed in weeks. Chains
hold me down.
Why am I in chains? The scenario happens
as such:
‘Victoria Wilson. Age fourteen. New arrival,’
the nurse says. ‘Attacked her husband. He
couldn’t handle her anymore.’
‘What should we do?’ the other nurse asks.
I am on my bed, staring out the window. I
used to be in a room with a window.
‘The only thing we can do.’
‘Leeches?’
‘Yes. Fetch them for me.’
Emilie Autumn’s Leeches
One can imagine what happens afterwards.
I lacerated those beasts, and they removed my
fingernails for it, a procedure that turned me
into a twitching fiend. My nail beds are dried
pieces of bloody skin.
I am a rose that has lost its thorns.
I can’t be insane, though. The insane ones
are outside of Bedlam. They choose to ignore
the fog infecting London, the dark creatures
slithering through their minds. They ignore it
by gambling, drinking, and buying prostitutes
and children for themselves.
I should have lost my sanity by now. I
should be grazing the air with my stubby
fingers. I should be mutilating the slimy
creatures in me. I should be screaming,
writhing, moaning, panting. Yet, I haven’t felt
the urge to. If I did, I wouldn’t hesitate to
unleash the black worms from my mind, let
them glide across my body, wrap their slickness
around my limbs and take control of me like a
marionette.
Instead I stare up at the eave, thinking too
much, waiting for sleep to consume me. Present
thoughts are comforting. Memories are
despairing. I purged myself of my memories
when I heard my husband was sending me to
Bedlam. I let all my insanity out at home before
I came here.
But I believe maggots clogging my veins are
delaying this inevitable lunacy. Soon they‘ll
turn to flies, and begin to buzz within me. It
won’t be long before I find these chains too
tight.
A girl screams in the cell next to mine.
Startling me, jolting my eyes wide. The
walls are hollow arteries, so sounds are never
muffled. I should be used to these screams; this
one is just too near. Thudding emerges behind
my head. Like everyone else, she just wants to
pull her brains out and ooze away her
memories.
Thud, thud, thud.
A steady, hollow rhythm.
No one answers her cries. She’s a banshee in a
hollowed-out body. Two black coals for eyes. No
heart. No soul. Every girl here is a banshee.
Some day, I’ll be one as well.
It must be nighttime, which is why no one
comes for her. One can never tell if it’s night or
day in here. The darkness is eternal.
The thudding stops, but the screaming
doesn’t. A simple word follows the screaming.
“Why?” Her voice is hoarse and cracks as
she draws it out.
That’s the simplest question, the word with
the most impact. Why is she here? Why is she
subjected to this? Why does no one care? Why is
she alone? Why isn’t anyone coming for her? I
could ask that same question, too.
“Why indeed,” I whisper.
Alice from American McGee’s Alice: A Madness Returns.
Footsteps resound down the hall. Must be
daytime then.
The footsteps stop at her cell. A lock clicks
open. The screams crescendo, then die down.
“Tabitha,” a female voice says.
She lets out a string of incoherent words.
Only the mad ones understand her.
“Tabitha,” the woman says again.
“Get out of here!” Tabitha says.
“Wot’s she ‘ere for?” a rough, masculine voice
asks.
“She’s here after attacking her husband. No
reason given. No reason asked. They talk
about her as though she isn’t in that cell, as
though she isn’t human. We are rats and not
patients. “Her father wants her here until she
is wholly sedate. Then he wants custody of her.
She’s twenty-three.”
Not a girl, but a woman old enough to care
for herself. A woman is never a woman, though,
no matter what age. She’ll forever be a girl.
“We’ll have to act fast with this one.”
“Should we try the leeches?”
“Yes.”
“Wot if those don’t work.”
“Cliterodectomy.”
For a moment all the suffering in the world
makes itself known to me. There’s a torture
somewhere, a woman getting raped. A babe is
dying in its mother’s arms. Men are killing
each other faster than rabbits reproduce.
Someone commits suicide. Slaves are whipped,
girls molested, boys abused, mothers killed,
animals tortured.
Maim, rape, torture, kill, abuse. Repeat.
Living is impossible if one is not doing any of
those things.
“Come on, Tabitha,” the woman says.
The screaming starts up again. It sounds
like Tabitha’s now clawing the wall as though
she can create a hole, crawl through it, and run
away. Someone slams the door to the side.
“You’ll have to get her arms,” the nurse says
in a hurry.
Tabitha screams louder. The sound of two
bodies colliding meets my ears. One of the
bodies hits the floor. The sound of tussling
mixed with screaming ensues. I imagine
Tabitha’s a tiger clawing at a gazelle, rending
its flesh with sharp claws.
“Nurse Hayes, grab ‘er legs!”
The screaming stops. The struggling ceases.
There is only the sound of whimpering.
“I’ve got ‘er from ‘ere.”
“Are you certain, Carlisle?”
There are no words. I assume Carlisle
replies with a nod.
Carlisle grunts. He must be hoisting her
over his shoulder. Boots scuff across the floor.
Heels click. The door shuts.
The boots scuff down the hall. The heels
click in my direction.
The lock clicks on my door.
“Time for your medicine, Victoria,” Nurse
Hayes says.
No. Not the medicine. Please not the
medicine.
My heart swells to the size of a boulder and
drops through the earth, taking my stomach
with it. I soil my bed.
When Nurse Hayes comes into my room, I scream.
My Editorial Dream

My Editorial Dream

I’ve wanted to be an editor since I was in the eighth grade butchering my classmates’ stories and realizing how much I enjoyed doing content editing and copy editing. So I began my serious study of the English language because, frankly, public education doesn’t teach English that well, and it was up to me to fill in the holes of my education (like how to REALLY use commas, not just commas in a list). But it wasn’t until college did I start to take this career path seriously, especially considering I knew I would need credentials before even interning or at least working at a local magazine.

This was the first magazine where I received some editorial experience as a slush pile reader.

After being published in The Oddville Press, I came across a thread on their associated website that was asking for slush pile readers. Having no experience, I expressed my desire to be one due to my love of the English language and wanting some editorial experience. So they took me on as a slush pile reader where I finally got experience on the other side of things. One thing I learned from them: that first page is critical because there are lots of other subs to read and if I don’t like that first page, I might as well pass on it because it’s just time consuming to read a manuscript that doesn’t interest me. I slush piled with them for about a year before they ended the magazine because we just couldn’t keep everyone together, but it was an experience I was happy to be a part of. It’s a small step toward achieving a dream, after all.

This was my next place of editorial experience.

After The Oddville Press caved, I somehow stumbled across this gothic magazine–even though I can’t remember how. I saw it was a brand new magazine looking for some staff members, and I decided to apply as an Executive Editor. Not only did I have The Oddville Press as experience, but I was an editor for my high school’s newspaper (I really don’t count it because I didn’t have too much of a say in how things were done), and I wrote for the teen section of my local newspaper. The owner of the magazine decided to bestow me with the title, and I got to work right away writing articles, editing the articles of others, editing fiction, writing fiction, doing some photography, looking for poetry and photography, and seeking out ads to put in the magazine. I even edited a few pieces for a program we were trying to do for teen journalists. I even wrote an entire style guide for the magazine based off the Chicago Manual of Style because I noticed my style of editing differed from the other editor’s style of editing, and we needed one style in order to give the magazine some consistency. So I learned loads working for Sorean. But I eventually had to leave because Sorean was on a break, and I needed to move on, as, during my stint at Sorean, I got called on as an editorial and communications intern for YALITCHAT. I was also working at my university’s writing center at the time, where I learned a lot too and began receiving clients for my freelance editing.

This was my third place of editorial experience, and I received the most experience here that pretty much allowed me to go on and do freelance editing.

As an editorial and communications intern, I was in charge of keeping the website edited, maintaining a list of paid members, maintaining Georgia McBride’s marketing plan, assisting Georgia McBride with with her beta readers, and even her own manuscript on occasion; editing and formatting the newsletter; writing for the newsletter (of which I did like two or three times); vetting query submissions for the agent inbox (at YALITCHAT, if your query gets approved, it gets sent to an agent who puts it as top priority versus those that haven’t been vetted); line editing query letters ready to go to an agent; and assisting with member concerns and greeting new members. I learned enormous amounts about editing from Georgia McBride who edited half of my manuscript. I also learned loads just from beta reading for some of her clients when she wanted to prove a point to her client because he/she wasn’t willing to make the changes needed to better the manuscript. Unfortunately, this is when fibro began to attack me and I had to resign. I just couldn’t do it. Plus, I was in the process of forming my own literary magazine.

This is my magazine, my baby, my creation that would not have been possible without my dear friend Daphne Maysonet.

In truth, I wanted my own literary magazine for the longest time, but I had no experience and had no idea how to go about starting one. But because of all the experience I received from my previous editorial stints, I finally received the knowledge on both the editorial and business ends of how to start one. That, and meeting Daphne, who was interested in helping me make this happen, birthed The Corner Club Press (so named because we sat in the corner of the classroom with our friends and called ourselves The Corner Club). I enjoy every moment of getting to make this magazine come alive. I used to do the photography, but lately all my photography ideas have mainly been for my novel and I can’t come up with any that can comply with a magazine. I still edit, and it is a joy being able to make someone’s day just by sending them an acceptance–even though we do not pay. I love interacting with the writers on the Facebook page because I aim to be personal with everyone who likes us. Even though there have been times where I’ve had to take long vacations from this literary magazine, I have always came back to it because people want to be in it no matter what. And I want to be fair to the writers who submit to us because, well, without writers this magazine wouldn’t exist. Seriously.

I currently am existing in my editorial dream. I’m not being paid for The Corner Club Press, but I certainly do get paid for my freelance editing, of which wouldn’t be possible without all the editorial experience I’ve earned the past few years. I love having my own magazine, my own project, and I love being a freelance editor because I get to function as a teacher and watch my clients grow as writers. That is invaluable experience I would not give up for anything.