When it comes to the form my words take, I am promiscuous. I write it all. Poetry. Erotica. Essays. Sorta kinda reviews. Blog posts. Short and long fiction and non-fiction. Stream-of-conscious rambling. Observations. To-do lists.
It started with a haiku written as a high school freshman. It was chosen for a program on KQED in the San Francisco Bay Area. It was the fall of 1971 and I never did hear it. I did eventually write a poem about that night when I missed hearing my poem read on the radio.
Fast forward 30 years. I submitted a poem to an anthology edited by Birgitta Jonsdottir, Michael Lohr, and Larry Jaffe – The Book of Hope: International poetry in a collective voice of hope. It was accepted and became the first time I saw my words in print. A magical moment.
It’s been more than a decade since I held that first book in my hands, and while my writing has come in fits and starts, I’ve never given up on it (though there are times I’ve wanted to). Now I have more than a dozen books on my shelf with my words somewhere in their pages. Often I slip into the mindspace of “I’m not a real writer.” I keep those books on my shelf to remind me.
I write to figure out the world. It’s been a confusing place. At times hurtful, at times full of joy.
I write to explain.
I write to communicate.
I write poetry because sometimes that’s how the words want to come out.
I write stories because I’ve always made up stories in my head and I finally started allowing myself to bring them into the world.
I write about sex because it’s a huge part of life and to ignore it is impossible for me.
I write the truth as I feel it.