Doomed If You're Different

Yesterday at work, I served a small family, just a mother and her son.  As soon as I took their orders, I noticed something strange about the boy—he sat rocking in his seat with his hands in his lap, he would not meet my eyes, and he spoke rather loudly when telling me his order.  I had my answer to the puzzle when the mother held up a sign behind the menu which said, “My son has autism.  He may behave strangely, please be patient.”  She looked very tired, and she fervently requested a glass of wine.  Later she pulled me aside to explain in a rather apologetic tone.

This made me angry, and very sad.  Why should something as simple as lunch at a restaurant be so difficult to handle?  According to autismspeaks.org, one in every eighty-eight children are on the autism spectrum, and it affects tens of millions of people worldwide.  But those of us who have no connection to it don’t bother to know anything about it.  I’m as guilty as anyone, of course—I only knew a very little about autism before this morning, and I never really understood it.  At some point, I may have been one of those people criticizing this mother behind her back for not controlling her son, or thinking that this kid is “weird” or “off.” 

People can be very unforgiving of the smallest things.  A child who doesn’t communicate well or behaves strangely, or an old man who stutters, or even a man with a prosthetic leg, can be judged immediately and cruelly for how they are different.  In the past four days I’ve served all of these people, and I’ve had to remind myself as I walked up to the table not to show any difference in my behavior towards them.  It was the autistic boy and his mother, however, who made me realize that I wasn’t doing enough.  My brother has Asperger Syndrome, which is closely related to autism.  I love him dearly, and nothing infuriates me more than when people make fun of him or judge him.  But I do the same—make snap judgments based on my first impression, and even if I don’t show it, I often have a great deal of impatience with people who are different.

When I learned about this boy, and saw the weariness in his mother’s eyes, I was determined that I would give them a break.  Every time I went back to the table, I spoke to the boy—he called me “Miss Eileen”—and when I brought them their check, I wrote a note on it saying how much of a pleasure it was to serve them.  The note was sincere: I was glad to help in some small way.  It wasn’t enough, of course, but it was a start.  Now I look forward to the opportunity to make myself more sincere in my thoughts as well as my actions, and to remember that everyone who is different, who behaves strangely or even badly—every single person—has someone, somewhere, who loves them the way I love my brother.  They deserve to be treated well, as people with thoughts and loves and dreams just like mine.

For more information on autism, please visit http://www.autismspeaks.org/what-autism.  

No More Tears

I messed up at work today.  Big time.  It was bad enough that our manager had to give out a free meal to five people.  I was so embarrassed and miserable, I was fighting back tears the whole rest of the night.

That’s one of the things I absolutely hate about myself—how easily the waterworks come on.  I know very well that one of the words people use most frequently to describe me is “cute.”  I’m five feet tall, with a round face, long blonde hair and baby blue eyes.  With all this, I don’t need anything else to prevent people from taking me seriously.  Yet, to make the cuteness total overkill, I have a problem with tears.

What makes it worse is when people are nice to me about it.  I realize that it sounds terribly ungrateful to complain about this, but it’s so true.  When I’ve messed up, I take it out on myself hard.  I have very high standards for myself and making dumb mistakes is not to be tolerated.  Thus, tears.  I can't help them.  When people are kind about my mistakes, it makes me feel worse.  I don’t feel that I deserve their kindness.  The best way for me to recover my composure is to not look anyone in the eye, to not say anything, and at best disappear and just breathe for a little while.

I fought against this impulse all night, and I managed not to cry.  It was a near thing once or twice, but I was bound and determined that I was not going to make myself more of a liability.  I do NOT want people to cater to me or feel sorry for me, and I certainly don’t want them to feel like they have to comfort me.  So from now on, I will take my lumps, put them behind me, and come back with one hundred and ten percent, and I will not shed one single tear over anything that doesn’t deserve it.

Wishes to Spare

My college roommate taught me about 11:11 in freshman year.  She explained that since the numbers look like birthday candles, you get a wish if you catch them on the clock.  This wish is apparently stronger on the eleventh of November.  Some people also believe that you get a wish at 1:11, but I would imagine that would be less likely to come true. 

I’ve never put much stock in this kind of thing, but I played along, making little wishes to amuse myself.  For several months now, though, I’ve had a wish in mind immediately every single time: “let me get a good apartment” or “let me get a job.”  My wishes were not playful, but desperate.  I needed all the help I could get.

This morning, I was in the kitchen when I happened to look up and see 11:11 on the microwave display.  I went to make a wish, and realized that I had to think a minute to come up with something I need.  I have my apartment and my job—my big wishes have come true.  Now, when I see 11:11 or 1:11, I’ll smile and wish for little things again, or even give my wish for the sake of someone else.  I’m back to a place in my life where I am in control, and this is enormously uplifting.  

Life Lessons from the Service Industry

When I took this job, I knew that I would learn a great deal about people, but I didn’t expect the lessons to come so quickly.  I haven’t been a waitress for a week yet—I haven’t even begun to take my own tables—and already I’m learning.

Working here is making me step out of my own experience.  When you’re young—and despite myself, I am still very young—you tend to think of everyone else as just like yourself.  You do it automatically (or at least I do) and on some level you’re surprised when they make choices that you would never make.  People are vastly different, and I’m only beginning to understand the sheer range of personalities out there. 

Of course, it’s only little things I’m spotting now.  I never use straws at restaurants—I just don’t like it.  But other people do, and they certainly remind me when I forget to bring them.  And whenever I go out to eat with someone, I go, I eat, and I leave.  I see no appeal in sitting at a dirty table, talking on into the night.  If I want to spend more time with that person, I’ll find somewhere else to do it.  But there are some people who just sit and sit and sit for ages.  (These people are not-so-affectionately dubbed “campers” and they are not a good thing, especially for a server who would otherwise be off shift by now.)  I can’t see the appeal, but there you are.

Like I said, small differences; but these differences are enough.  The small things lead to the big things, and they get me to thinking.  I really do look forward to learning more about others in this job—it will be interesting to see what other ways people can surprise me.

Time to Spare?

Every morning at 10:30 AM, I'm supposed to sit down at my computer to write something for my blog.  Whether or not that something ends up on my blog usually depends on the clarity of my thoughts at the time, but I always write something.  I have found that this is the best way for me to keep up with my work.

I haven’t done this for the past few days.  That’s because I wasn’t here at 10:30 AM.  On Friday I was on my way to work; on Saturday I was driving to Richmond for a baby shower, and this morning I was out the door to go to church.  But I have cracked down on myself again now—it is currently 10:39 PM.  Now at one time or the other, I will get my work done.

I’ve had it easy for the past few months.  The implementation of my work schedule was surprising to me, though it shouldn’t be.  I never realized just how much time a busy schedule can take up.  It’s only now that I realize I wasn’t just hanging out here in this apartment while I was still unemployed.  I was writing, working on music, organizing my home, etc.  Of course there was plenty of the unmotivated loitering going on too, but now I don’t have nearly as much time for any of that. 

So this is easy, Eileen, you might say.  Just cut out the unmotivated loitering.  Unfortunately, that isn’t possible.  I know myself pretty well, or at least I know what happens when I am required to have constant output of mental energy.  It isn’t pretty.  I need some time to just relax and not have to think for a while.  

This means, then, that I will have to use my time wisely again.  No big deal--I did it for four years at Hollins, and I will be able to do it again.  But I know there will be times that I miss those aimless days of mental wandering.  

Strange Sleep

This morning I experienced a very curious phenomenon.  I woke up to my alarm, of course, and went back to sleep.  I have several alarms, you see, to wake me up in stages.  Little did I know that I had forgotten to set my last alarm, the one that requires me to get out of bed to turn off.  So there I was, lying in bed, half-aware, and eventually it occurred to me that I should probably be awake.  I rolled over to check my phone, and it was 9:18.  I closed my eyes.  One alarm at eight o’clock, I told myself, one alarm at eight thirty, and now it’s past nine.  I should be up by now.  I could swear that no time passed by at all except the time it took me to think that.  But I opened my eyes again and checked the clock, and it was 9:35.

Sleep is a funny thing.  Sometimes I sleep so deeply nothing can wake me up (though I do that less often now since the occurrence of an embarrassing incident at camp three years ago).  Other times I can’t sleep at all and stay up until at least four o’clock in the morning just waiting to feel tired.  (This latter happening is unfailingly accompanied by an intense desire for pancakes.)  I dream in the mornings, just before I wake up, and often I become aware that I’m dreaming for brief moments, but then fall easily back into the dream.  Sometimes I remember my dreams in vivid detail; other times only a few snippets remain (a choir concert and hot pink shirts, and I was late, I think).  And that’s just me—there are so many other quirky sleep habits that people have.

It’s interesting, isn’t it?  And it’s one of those things that can’t really be explained by someone outside of your head.  I mean, scientists have many theories about sleep and dreaming, and they can fabricate ways to test these theories, but in the end how do you really know what’s going on in someone’s head?  And if we can’t do it when people are asleep, how can we hope to understand people when they’re awake?

Dream Job (?)

Today is my last day of freedom.  Don’t worry, I’m not eloping or being sold into slavery.  I’m just getting a job.  I start training at Ruby Tuesday’s tomorrow, and within a week I will officially be a waitress.

Now, I’ve noticed a trend among the reactions people have when I tell them where I’m working.  Some people are very good at hiding their surprise, but I can see it in the slight widening of their eyes, or even in the absolute changelessness of their expression.  Some people nod sympathetically and say something along the lines of, “well, a job is a job.”  A few times, I’ve gotten the “oh” with implied dismayed “really?”  And my neighbor was very open with his opinion when I told him—“Well, that sucks,” he informed me.

I admit this job wasn’t exactly what I was thinking of when I was toiling through four years of a difficult undergraduate program.  And often now when I’m telling people of what I’m doing now, I feel the need to defend myself.  “I’m just taking a year off school, so I just need something that will pay the bills.”  “Anything’s better than being unemployed, right?”  I’m sure when I say these things that people will say that I sold out or gave up, or at best, that I’m a victim of the tortuous job market.

But honestly, I don’t feel very victimized.  I think this job could be very good for me—perhaps just what I’m looking for.  See, what I really want to do is write, with some time to compose on the side.  Working in a restaurant may not leave me any more time to do that than any other full-time job would, but since I’ll be working night shifts most of the time, it will feel like I have more time.  Meanwhile, the job itself looks very promising for me.  It will teach me how to deal with people, and I’m sure that I’ll pick up several story ideas from my interactions with staff and customers.  My manager already likes me, and frankly, he’s thrilled to have me, which is nice for anyone anywhere. 

So I’m going to try not to be defensive anymore.  Who cares if waiting tables makes me look like a victim?  The fact is, I’m not.  A job is a job, and a life is a life, and this is mine.  Right now, I feel very good about it.

In Loving Memory of a Sci-Fi Character

We all like to watch TV.  Even I, who has maybe a hundred channels on my economy television plan (and interest in about ten percent of them), have a handful of shows which I follow with avid interest.  Bones, Downton Abbey, and Merlin are the most recent attractions, though I also enjoy going back to watch old favorites.  For the past few weeks now I’ve been watching Stargate SG-1, a great sci-fi show from the nineties, and I noticed something very interesting.

Very basically, the story follows a team of explorers who travel through a machine called a Stargate that can send them almost anywhere in the galaxy.  They explore and gather information about what’s out there and how they can protect Earth.  I like the show because it has marvelous detail, good characterization, and exciting story lines with humor thrown in.  And the special effects are better than most, at least for the time.  But (spoiler alert!) at the end of season five, one of the main characters was killed off, and I was surprised by how much this affected me.

Of the four members of the team, Daniel Jackson was always the one kind of in the background.  He’s the quiet one, the nerd, the one who doesn’t throw himself into the action.  He’s not witty and commanding like Jack O’Neill, or a brilliant scientist like Samantha Carter, nor does he have the interest of being a stone-faced alien warrior like Teal’c.  Probably of the four of them, Daniel was the one who had the fewest episodes devoted to his concerns.  But when he was gone, to me the whole show seemed somehow diminished, and I wondered why that was.

The answer came to me when I was talking to a friend about another television show, Downton Abbey.  We were discussing our favorite characters, and I began to notice something about my choice Mr. Bates.  Bates is quiet, self-effacing, but strong when he needs to be, loyal to his friends and not petty—rather like Daniel Jackson, in fact.

It seems that in most shows that I watch, I’m drawn to the character who provides the moral background, the one who speaks up only when the others are making bad choices, the one who sticks to his beliefs even when things get very hard.  Agent Booth from Bones, Merlin from the show of the same name…Richard Cypher from Legend of the Seeker and Kyle from Kyle XY—all of my favorite characters have these traits in common.  Often it’s the hero I’m drawn to, but not always, as my first two examples show.  In fact, I’m more drawn to the characters who aren’t the hero, but rather stand behind him and support him.

I think I connect with these characters because that’s how I like to see myself.  I don’t really know if I’m like that, but I hope I am.  And I don’t have to be the hero in every episode of my life.  I just want to be the person who can be depended upon to do the right thing. 

Repartee is Something We Think of Twenty-four Hours Too Late

I love repartee.  Being a smartass myself, I appreciate sharp wit in others, and I have entire books of smart comments from people who think on their toes.  I especially appreciate it because too often I am that person who comes up with a delightful response to a smart remark ten minutes after the delivery of that remark.  So this morning, I’m simply going to share some of my favorite gems from my memory, for your reading pleasure.  Enjoy!

George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill:  “I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend.  If you have one.”

Churchill’s response: “Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second…if there is one.”

An exchange between Muhammad Ali and a flight attendant asking him to put on his seatbelt:

“Superman don’t need no seatbelt.”

“Superman don’t need no airplane, either.”

William Faulkner on Hemingway: “He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”

Ernest Hemingway on Faulkner: “Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”

Lemony Snicket, in response to a video of a woman destroying his books:  “It has always been my belief that people who spend too much time with my work end up as lost souls, drained of reason, who lead lives of raging emptiness and occasional lunatic violence.  What a relief it is to see this documented.”

And though I can’t remember the exact names of the ladies who said this, it’s too good not to include.  Back in the days when ladies wore gloves, one of them expressed disgust at the kidskin her friend was wearing: “Skin of a beast!”

Her companion politely asked what then the other lady wore.  When she answered “silk”, the lady in kidskin gloves declared in horror, “Entrails of a worm!”

For more smart replies, take a look at “Viva La Repartee: Clever Comebacks and Witty Retorts from History’s Great Wits and Wordsmiths” by Mardy Grothe, a very delightful book and the source of most of these quotes.  If sometime in my life my name and my words appear in a book like this, I will not have lived in vain.

Photo credit: http://www.drmardy.com/repartee/vivalarepartee.shtml

Title is a quote by Mark Twain, borrowed from the front of this book.

To Fail is Epic

Today was a momentous occasion for me.  I confirmed that I did not, in fact, win a competition to which I submitted my writing.  I didn’t actually receive a rejection (which complaint is another blog post entirely) but I have failed, and therefore I have taken another step closer to the honored society of true writers.

This sounds a little sad, but it’s true: writers fail.  All the time.  There are all sorts of stories out there about famous authors who sent out their now-famous works—Harry Potter, A Wrinkle in Time, etc.—to six or seven or twenty-seven publishers before finally receiving an answer.  And there are hundreds, I’m sure, whose stories don’t have that happy ending, who give up after they have enough rejections to paper their walls.  Rejections and failures are the marks of a writer.

I, however, hope to show off my rejections like cool scars, because a failure means I tried.  At the very least, I’m out there and I’m putting my writing out there, and I have a chance to learn from every mistake I make.  So in my “submissions” spreadsheet, under the column of success, I have proudly written “epic fail” next to the contest I entered.  I hope to see many, many more such entries in the future.

Hope is Hard to Kill

The other day, I saw a picture in a magazine of a young boy under the heading “MISSING.”  Usually—though I’m sorry to say it—I don’t pay very much attention to these advertisements, but this picture caught my eye.  It was tinted faintly yellowish, and the boy’s hairstyle was odd.  I realized why a moment later, when I saw the photo next to it of the boy artificially aged to what he would look like today.  The boy has been missing since 1984.

How sad, and how sweet.  For twenty-eight years this family has been missing one of their own, and still they haven’t given up.  They must know the chances of ever finding him, and even if they did there would be so many problems to cope with—if he’s alive, by now he has his own life, his own family.  He could be anywhere in the world, maybe not even knowing or wanting to know the family he was taken from.  But still they keep searching, keep hoping.  To me, that shows a marvelous strength of heart.  I applaud them, and I hope for a happy ending to their search, as impossible as it may seem.

"Self-Evident" Means "Obvious": Protecting the Pursuit of Happiness

There’s so much buzz in the air these days about gay rights.  It’s one of the primary concerns of the presidential candidates—some people consider it the only reason for their choice between Romney and Obama.  And whoever you ask seems to have a very strong opinion about it.  But I can’t help but wonder if our government has a right to control this.

I see articles and images all the time talking about “the sanctity of marriage.”  It seems strange to me in today’s culture, where so little is considered to be sacred.  Religion is not a powerful force in society, at least not openly—it’s one of those things most people don’t normally discuss outside of their own circle of friends.  And where the government is concerned, it’s something that shouldn’t be discussed.  I quote word for word from Amendment I—as in, the first and arguably most important amendment—to the Constitution of the United States: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”  (View a transcript of the Bill of Rights here.)  Therefore, if we consider marriage to fall under the domain of religion—as the word “sanctity” implies—it is unconstitutional for the government to pass any laws about it.

On the other hand, marriage is also a civil concern, as the joining of two people to form a family unit (from Merriam-Webster: “a contractual and consensual relationship recognized by law”).  Marriage gives the married couple certain rights, including next-of-kin, release of medical information, shared assets, etc.  Okay.  Surely this is fair game for the government to regulate?  I’m not so sure.  Certainly the first amendment has nothing to say about this side of marriage, but something about the suggested marriage laws still sits wrong with me.  Removing the religious concerns, what reason do we have to prohibit gays from getting married?  If a marriage as a civil union is “a contractual and consensual relationship”, why should the law not recognize it between two people of the same sex?  Remember, we've already knocked out the religious element, so you can't say anything about what the Bible says.  The only arguments that remain (that I can think of) are these: first, that marriage in the past has always been between a man and a woman; and second, that marriage is meant for the creation of children.  Well, the latter doesn't hold much water when you think of how many children are in foster care: more than 400,000 last month according to www.childwelfare.gov.  If same-sex couples can offer children like that a stable home, why should they not be able to?  As for the concern of "traditional" marriage, while it's hard sometimes to argue against tradition, tradition alone is not a very logical or convincing argument.  

Having gone through the reasons in support of marriage regulation, now I'd like to take a look at the reasons against it, or at least the one most pressing reason, which is this: if we do prohibit gays from getting married, are we taking rights from them that they otherwise deserve to have?  Let’s head back to the words of the founding fathers, who in fact were very smart men in my opinion.  Maybe there’s nothing in the constitution that speaks one way or the other about same-sex marriage, but what about the Declaration of Independence?  Again I quote: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  (View a transcript of the Declaration of Independence here.)

If choosing to tie your life to that of someone you love is not the pursuit of happiness, what on earth is?

So here we have, in the very first words of the first document that made this nation what it is, a promise to its people that their most basic rights will not be taken away—that it is the duty of the government to protect those rights.  Similarly, in the first amendment of the document on which we base all of our laws and government regulations, there is a promise that we will not be ruled by a religion not our own through the government.  So how in the world can anyone claim that federal regulations on marriage are right and just?

If there’s even one thing that is sacred to our government, it should be the freedom of the people.  The minute we start taking freedom from our people, we cease to be the nation that our founders hoped we would be.

This Bridge Will Only Take You Halfway There

I got a skype call from a friend of mine last night.  She’s recently decided that she can no longer live in her current home and is moving out by Friday.  I was surprised to hear of how quickly this decision had been made—I talked to her just last week and she gave no indication of this.  But it was almost immediately clear to me that she’d made the right choice.  It was also deeply evident that she was absolutely terrified at the prospect of the change.

I can understand that feeling.  At this point in my life, I’m in a situation that I’ve never once before had to deal with, and that is having no options except those that I make myself.  All through school and college, I had decisions of my own to make, but they were ruled by the expectations and requirements of others.  Go to school, go to college, get a job for the summer, figure out something to do for the holidays…  I always was aware of what I needed to do, and I had plenty of people more than happy to help me do it.  Now, however, I’ve reached the end of the path laid out for me, and my parents and teachers and friends have left me with a few tools and a bucket of cement to build the rest of it myself.  And I look at what I have and what I still have to do and I think, oh no.

Of course I was excited to get out on my own.  Everyone is.  I’m still excited, though I’ve been in my apartment for three weeks now.  Everything is new and stimulating, even buying cooking supplies and groceries, even paying rent (though I’m sure the shine on that one will fade very quickly).  But I remember the weeks at the end of summer, when I still didn’t have an apartment, still needed to look online and make phone calls and plan trips to look at apartments.  And I remember how for days on end I avoided thinking about it, put it off, told myself I had plenty of time.  I was scared of taking that step.  In fact, I spent several nights lying awake, trying desperately not to think of how very terrified I was.  And sometimes I still feel some of that anxiety.

Shel Silverstein wrote a poem, “The Bridge” that explains this time of life beautifully.  It tells of a bridge that is only half-built, and to complete it, to reach “those mysterious lands you long to see,” you have to finish it alone.  This is exactly how I feel.  We who are starting our lives now, we are that small person standing alone at the end of the half-built bridge, staring out at the lands we want to reach, down at the long drop.  And while standing here is exciting, the beginning of our chance to prove ourselves to the world, it is also absolutely terrifying.  The sooner as we accept both of these feelings and learn to use them both to our advantage, the sooner we can get to work on the rest of that bridge.

Credit photo: http://shel96326.pixnet.net/blog/category/410776

Subtle Fiction

"Fiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that mankind has invented yet.” John Updike

There’s a lot of talk in the writing world about fiction and what it is—how much of it is true, how much of it relies on truth, whether or not it’s worthwhile, etc.  This quote caught my attention the other day, and I think it strikes closer to the truth than most of the other talk.  As a fiction writer, I spend a lot of time making up things, often to the point of leaving my entire world behind in favor of another.  Why do I bother?  The writing of stories doesn’t improve the economy or persuade anyone in favor of world peace.  My stories don’t teach anyone how to do anything, or help them understand how the world works, or give them any kind of useful information for their lives.  At best, it makes them think a little bit, but even that isn’t life-changing.  So what’s the point?

According to John Updike, writing fiction is done more for the sake of the writer than the reader.  Well, this is nothing new—there are dozens of quotes from authors that can testify to that.  What does interest me in this quote is the idea of subtlety: the proposal that we write to explore ourselves, and we don’t even realize we’re doing it.

Now that I’m thinking about it, many of the things I believe, I’ve discovered through my writing.  Things like personal freedoms, political options, and questions of ethics are all explored in my alternate worlds, the stories that I write.  I put my characters through problems in their lives and always somewhere in the back of my mind I’m thinking, what would I do in this situation?  In most cases, the characters are doing what I would do in that situation, and so in a strange way, I gain experience through writing that I might never get in my own life.

But it’s not only self-examination that Updike talks about: he also mentions self-display.  The vast majority of writers are a private lot.  We don’t like to be out and about, making statements about who we are and what we want from the world.  But everyone at some point needs to declare themselves, to say what we believe and try to explain who we are.  The avenue of fiction is a very safe way of doing this.  We can say “oh, it’s just a story” but deep down we know better.  The stories we tell are our declarations of self to the world, and we don’t even have to know that we’re doing it.  It is through fiction that we make it known who we are.

Not All Poems are Poetry

Yesterday, I put together three poems to submit for a poetry prize this month.  I did so with a certain kind of rueful amusement, as if a part of me didn’t believe that anyone but myself could ever enjoy my poetry.  I’m proud of all three poems, and I think they’re well-written, but something tells me that no one else would ever agree.  When it comes to poetry, I’m braced for the careful, stiff compliments that people give when they’re trying to be kind about something that’s awful.

I’ve been writing poetry for years.  In my rambling journals, which I began when I was thirteen, a poem appears on the very first page—that is, if one can call it a poem.  But for me, poetry is not so much an art form as a way of thinking out loud, of playing with words as I put them on paper.  It’s also intensely personal, as I usually found the easiest way to deal with strong emotion was to write about it, and poetry made it more palatable for me.

When I got to Hollins, I was surprised and a little skeptical about the idea of submitting poetry for criticism in my writing classes.  As if poetry were serious writing!  Of course, I understand that as literature, it is very serious indeed—how could I not, with Yeats, Shakespeare, Frost, Oliver, Neruda, and so many others playing a vital role in my education?  But my poems were nothing, tidbits of words and thought cobbled together like a child’s collage.  They weren't for sharing.

I’ve slowly changed my tune over the years, but still I don’t give my poems the attention that I give to my novels and my short stories.  I think I’m a better poet than most people on the street, sure, but once I enter the honored company of true poets, I lower my head and step into the corner.  My father always says the operative question of life is “compared to what?”  And in comparison with the work of my peers, I don’t have any good things to say about my own poems.

I realize now, though, my own outlook is most likely what holds me back.  Who can take me seriously if I do not?  No one is ever going to take me by the throat, give me a good shake, and shout into my eyes, “If it’s so bad, then make it better, you idiot!”  So here I am, submitting my poetry to the same editing and revisions that I give to my longer works, and even more nerve-tingling, actually sending it off to be judged by others.  Who knows?  Maybe I am my own worst critic, and maybe when it comes to poetry, I know more that I think I do.  It would be a fitting irony if that were the case, don’t you think?