This past weekend I went to the League
of Utah Writers fall writing conference.
I go to lots of conferences, but this
is a first for me. The general consensus has been that this
conference does not measure up to the others in the state. I'm happy
to report that this is not the case. Not this year, anyway.
When I go to a conference, I usually
look at the special things they're doing. In the past it has been the
ones you have to sign up for that have really helped me. During my
first Boot Camp at Storymakers, Lisa Mangum blew my baby writing mind
wide open. And she was so nice about it! One year at CONduit I signed
up for a manuscript review by a couple of local authors, as well as a
first 13 line critique from a lady who looks stark raving mad, but is
a writing genius. I was terrified, but I leaned a lot. And one year,
Dan Wells finally explained passive voice to me. Bless him.
While signing up for the conference
(which I decided to do last minute) I noticed they had a 3 hour
poetry workshop.
Now, I'll start by saying that I don't
love poetry. The teachers I had in school always drew these deep,
often confusing and befuddling meanings from just a few lines of
text.
Seriously, since when does the limp bag
of a vacuum cleaner represent lung cancer? What if I say it
represents the fact that they have dirty house? Maybe they haven't
cleaned their dirty mind out for a while. Or maybe, just maybe, it
doesn't mean anything.
Yes, yes, I realize I may offend a few
of my friends who do, in fact, love poetry. Sorry guys.
So the instructor for this workshop was
great. The class was wonderful, actually. I learned a lot of things
about poetic writing and using the senses to an extreme I'd never
considered before. We talked about how connections or disconnections
are what cause emotions and that's where many people draw their poems
from.
All of that stuff was awesome.
The instructor read a beautiful poem
that she has published, and I thought the imagery was lovely and deep
and conflicting and awesome. And then she pointed out that it was
actually about her and her sister getting molested by a neighbor.
What???
Really???
Sure enough, I read it again and found the clues.
Others in the group picked up on it the
first go around.
Now I'm not actually dissing poetry,
nor am I making light of abuse in any way. But to “Get it” is it
required to have had some serious childhood trauma that you'll never
recover from?
(That might be the offensive part,
sorry.)
This is why I'm pretty sure I'll never
be qualified to read or write serious poetry. I haven't been through
nearly enough trauma.
Which I'm fine with, by the way. Totally fine.
The workshop had us draw an aerial view
of our childhood home, and dredge up some of our earliest, emotional
memories. Connections. Finding three good ones was easy. I had to
really sift through my head to find bad ones.
I'm an optimist, and apparently that
started from a very young age. Either that or I've lived a charmed
life. Again, I'm fine with both.
I won't share the horrible poem I
wrote. Which was great fun, by the way. I had a wonderful time.
But really, when we read this little poem by:
Margaret Atwood (click on the link and
read it please, it's only 4 lines ling)
I was like, “That is one seriously
pissed off ex-girlfriend.”
The rest of the group was like, “Abuse.
It's about abuse. The barbs and the hook and the trust and the
betrayal and the...”
Yeah. Okay. If that's how it makes you
feel, then that's how it makes you feel. But don't try to tell me
that that is how I should feel about it.
Because I don't.
And I hope never to.
However, if you need some sarcastic poetry, call me. I'm totally in.
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