I’ve always considered myself a fictionist first–short stories, the occasional abandoned novel–before anything. It’s what I aim to do, if I ever do it one of these days; to write a book, to write books, to put together a book full of my stories. (Whether desire will meet action is entirely another issue). Having said the latter, I have to also say that I’ve always loved and enjoyed poetry. Writing it, reading it, everything. I took tons of poetry courses in college to feed that love; I wrote tons of bad poems in high school to feed that love, as well. A good poem makes my day.
My point is that I’ve writing more poems lately. A lot lately. And I like it. There’s something freeing about pouring out my feelings in stanza form, of really playing around with language and thought. And my poems (something I can’t always say about my fiction) are wholly and completely comprised of me, my life, my experiences. It just feels real. I’m not saying that I’m leaving my short stories behind (or have they left me?), but maybe it’s time to consider (which I haven’t always done) that writing poetry is still writing.
You see, I haven’t been very fair to poetry. Because before? When I would lament that I hadn’t written anything? I meant stories. And, sadly, I equated true writing solely to fiction. (Sorry, Emily Dickinson. Never said I was perfect). Mainly because it’s what I’ve done for all these years. My cushion, my truest love. But the pen was moving all along. The pen was moving all along! For a professed lover and dabbler of poetry, it’s time to be real. In fact, poetry, stories, essays, a JournaBlog–it’s all writing. So I’m doing it and I’ve been. In your face, writer’s block.
I’m no poet, though. Yikes; there are true poets out there, seriously. Nevertheless: yes, I can happily say that I’m a writer of poetry, and that suits me just fine.