Kelly Flowers

writer

Skeletons (aka journals) In My Closet

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If you asked my 11 year old self what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wouldn’t have wavered. I would have replied that I wanted to be a writer. And that never changed. I didn’t even major in something practical, as was suggested by those that love me.

I ended up studying literature and working in business writing, which, funny enough, turns out to be very practical.

Fast forward a couple decades and here I am, spending my weekend cleaning (because that is what all neurotically busy mothers do). While sorting boxes in a storage closet, I came across the roots of my ambition, my first journals dating back to that 11 year old self. I remember filling them over the years (there are at least 15) with what I imagined was pure genius, prodigy even. Every time I closed the cover of a completed journal, I marveled at it. I wrote a book. This convinced me that I was a writer. (Somehow, today, I feel less confident in this fact.)

So, yay me. I didn’t change my mind. I didn’t give up. I maintained unwavering conviction in the art and am still muddling in it today.

Just for laughs, I thought I’d share a piece of my terrible pre-teen poetry. Just a sliver though. Because I can’t. I. Just. Can’t. I cried of embarrassment as I read this. Not a little welling of the eyes but big can’t-see-the-page tears. Some things tucked in the back of a storage closet are better off.

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Wow, right? You don’t find this kind of drama in every 11 year old. Only the nerdy ones.

Is there anything more intimate than one’s first stab at poetry? I may as well be standing naked in front of the class. But if you can’t laugh at yourself…

I still write poetry and much of it isn’t much better. My themes have evolved, somewhat. After reading a poem a couple of weeks ago, my husband put it down, nodded thoughtfully and opened his mouth to speak only to close it again. “What?” I said. Is it that terrible? I thought. Is he speechless at its utter beauty? Finally he says, “How come all of your poems are about sex?”

Well, age doesn’t necessarily bring sophistication.

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One thought on “Skeletons (aka journals) In My Closet

  1. Pingback: Remember College Poetry? | Kelly Flowers

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