Softly Dreaming Blog

When I was in high school, I took a brilliant Creative Writing class. (Thanks Mr. Sid Wallace for being so cool!) It still amazes me today the talent that came out of that class, from the least likely sources. There was the jock that actually could write the most romantic poetry. There was the cute popular guy who has such a knack for description that your jaw dropped to the floor. There was the mod who showed she preferred traditional technique. Then there was me.

My formative years, shall we say, were pretty harsh. I hadn’t really let anyone know that I wrote reams and reams of poetry. It was one way I coped. I hid it well. I would think about why I wrote, and felt that I had something to leave to the world. Yet, without putting it out there, how could that ever happened? That’s when I met Emily Dickinson and wondered if I would die all alone with boxes of poems under my bed. (By the way, Emily Dickinson is still with me, my kitten is named after her in a weird progression of possible names, including “Little Dickens”.)

I didn’t share my most teen angst tortured poems in class. Those were reserved for, what else? The box under my bed. I was never the one who got the most kudos, or had the most talent, but I wasn’t a bottom feeder either.

Then one day, my hippie teacher gave up a contest. It was for the best Mother’s Day poem, and the winner would get $20 plus a plaque. The jock, the popular guy (he looked like the Little Prince) and the mod were all favored to win. They even expected it, I think.

I wrote some daft poem in about five minutes. Something titled “The Recipe for Mothers”. You’ve all heard these poems before. A pinch of this, a cup of that, yada yada. It was nothing new. It was superficial compared to the darker stuff I wrote at that time.

So when I won the contest and took possession of my super huge plaque with a piece of tape on it signifying I won 1st place in the Mother’s Day poetry contest, there was no more hiding. The thing was huge and when I brought it home, there was no way to hide it from mom. So I went up and showed it to her. I thought she might be proud. Instead she cried.

She said she had no idea I wrote poetry. Would I show her some of my writing?

Her favorite was a little three pager I wrote about two imaginary creatures in the form of a children’s story. My mom pestered me for YEARS, literally, to flesh it out and finish it. I finally finished it when I was in London, some eight or nine years later. I had it partially illustrated. Even to this day she brags about that book to her friends, and constantly asks for copies.

So, mom. Hats off to you this Mother’s Day! I love you, and thanks for the support that you were able to give, and continue to give.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 11th, 2008 at 9:42 am and is filed under Family. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.