I have done pondering upon pondering and still, this question feels like it has the power and weight to crush my body and soul three times over, but really, I am making it harder than it has to be. 

 

One of my core memories is from Writer’s Workshop in Mr. Richard’s third-grade class. This was the hour of each day designated for writing stories in our red composition notebooks. As I was writing, my teacher, Mr. Richards, bent down next to my tiny desk and looked me in the eye, “Send me a copy when you publish your first book,” he said. Was this the moment? The spark that ignited it all? Probably not, but it is something I turn back to time and time again to remind myself…

 

I have always been a writer. 

 

I can’t say this for much else in my life. As a kid, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” was a terrifying, existential question. For most of my life, I was distanced from writing and would have never considered it a notable part of my future. So, whenever I was asked that question, I felt dread over the fact that I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do with my life. Adolescence is scary when you don’t have a predetermined career path to tie your entire identity onto. 

 

This uncertainty followed me into college, where for my first year or so, I floated around hoping something would hook and reel me into a sweet capitalist sense of groundedness. Little did I know, I would take my first Creative Writing course in the second semester of my Freshman year and decide that all along, I had been a poet. 

 

Since then, I can’t say that “grounded” is the word I would use to describe my journey as a writer. Unfortunately, there are no step-by-step guides detailing the path to becoming a successful poet. Believe me, I have looked. I am fortunate enough to have access to a college education, so at least I have an English degree (in progress, with a minor in writing) on my side, but mostly the whole ordeal has been guesswork. So… 

 

Why do I do it? 

 

I write poetry because I am overwhelmed by the tiny bits of life, the sheer abundance of them, and the way that they add up into the big things. The little daffodils speckling the hill between my run-down college house and the apartment building I have to lug my laundry to, that memory of my mother chopping vegetables on the coffee table of our sunlit living room, the caramels and rootbeer gifted to me by the owner of the shop next door, and so on. The hugeness and beauty of these things have settled heavily in me for my entire life, poetry allows me to rest those feelings on the page. 

 

Then, I get to share it. I get to write the most specific feelings about the most specific experience and someone, somewhere, will understand. I will write it in the most simple terms so that when they read my poem, they will feel its importance too, and neither of us will be alone.