On Writing…

I have been a writer for as long as I can remember. Words have always been in my heart, and I have needed to get pen to paper. I remember, in second grade, having to author a poem about myself, and my name did not have a lot of rhymes. In the end, I wrote: My name is Morgan / and I am sweet like sorghum. (Not a fantastic rhyme—and not sure sorghum is really that sweet). As a kid, I wrote all the time, but my favorite thing to write was plays called Maniac Magee, in which the titular character always did things to make himself maniacal—and then I would make my siblings act out his antics. My poor sister, Kayla, had to be the maniac most of the time. In Junior High, I wrote a series of novellas (I thought they were books at the time) called The Friends, the Lovers, and the Fighters. The series follows a group of friends from Junior High to marriage and kids.

When I was in high school, I focused a lot on my storytelling. Even my school projects had a story quality to them. At the time, I did not know anything about writing, except I did not want my writing to be boring. As a first-year student in college, I failed my English entry exam and had to take English 98 (pre-entry level course), which was a helpful class, because it taught me to really learn what words mean, and how to write from “me.” My professor told me I did not need to be in the course, but I gained valuable skills that helped my writing. During my sophomore year, I took Creative Writing, and fell in love with writing short stories. I have notebooks full of short stories I have written in my storage unit. Hundreds. The first one was called The Quarterback’s Keeper and is full of sports references. I have edited a few times since then. Yet, it sits in my storage unit in a pile with my other writings.  

From time to time, I would add poems I had written, but I never really considered myself a poet. When I studied abroad in Athens, I was deeply impressed by the history, beauty, and other culture of the country—Athens was written in my heart, but I could not write the words. I bought special pens. I spent time alone, in the quiet of the city. It was not until one late night, my friend, Ilya, challenged me to write a poem about melancholy in 5 minutes. I did it. No thinking. No hesitation. He loved it. He was my muse. From that moment on, I wrote everything. It was not all good. In fact, a lot of it was not. It was all me. When we went to Santorini, I spent hours alone, just writing. Writing about nature. Writing about love—or lack there. Anything and everything was fair game, and I have not looked back since. Later, Ilya and I, lived on the same street in Athens that Lord Byron wrote much of his collected poems. It was an ethereal experience to sit on my balcony, overlook the Acropolis, and just like the Greek poets and Byron before me, use my love of language to express my innermost thoughts. The Greeks really understand the importance of language, and they love language.  

When I went back to college, I decided I wanted to get a creative writing degree from UNCW’s renowned program. At the same time, I worked on my Master’s in Editing because I wanted to have a career to fall back to if writing didn’t make me money. After doing both simultaneously, I knew the confines of creative writing weren’t for me. I know that sounds odd, but I believe the goal of a lot of the creative literature I was reading was an attempt to be weird, with no other goal that to be weird.  

That’s not me. I am quirky and weird on my own. Life is quirky and weird. I like reading real, and that’s who I am as a writer. Now, I will read the different and the weird, and maybe it was just my professor who chose the weird writings, but I understood more about all the aspects of writing from reading the more “traditional” storytellers.  I have never been a fan of Hemingway or Fitzpatrick, but reading Hills Like White Elephants and Bejamin Button, I learned so much about subtly and nuances of physicality and description. These examples made me a better writer. These writings made me understand writing better. Additionally, I learned a lot from E.B. White’s The Elements of Style. In an essay, he described what being a writer was like, he said, “The thought of writing hangs over our mind like an ugly cloud, making us apprehensive and depressed, as before a summer storm, so that we begin the day by subsiding after breakfast, or by going away, often to seedy and inconclusive destinations: the nearest zoo, or a branch post office to buy a few stamped envelopes. Our professional life has been a long shameless exercise in avoidance. Our home is designed for the maximum of interruption, our office is the place where we never are. Yet the record is there. Not even lying down and closing the blinds stops us from writing; not even our family, and our preoccupation with same, stops us.” 

After I graduated in 2013, I paused the writing process in my life. I worked for authors, learning about the ins-and-outs of the publishing industry and retreats, and IMO, all the cliche things authors do to make themselves better known. That cutthroat world was not a world I was interested in. Writing takes work, and every piece of writing, whether good or bad, is part of someone’s soul. One of the authors I worked for said the rejection he received was not personal, but how can it not be? Writings are someone’s personal thoughts/dreams/goals/ideas….everything about writing is personal. There is an intimacy in presenting your thoughts to the world through your writing. Writing is one of the most personal things a person can do in this world. All of my writings have a sense of positivity, and I couldn’t cut other people’s dreams down. Instead, I focused on editing because even if someone presents me writing that isn’t good, I can help them learn how to make their writing better.  

Figuring out the literary world wasn’t for me was difficult. Yet, I knew I was a writer. So, I decided I wanted to share a book. I always (like E.B. White said) have a story in my head. At the time, I was working on my PhD, and I decided as stress relief I would put my ideas on paper. Almost two years later, November 2017, I published Eleutheria. The book was written mostly for me. To prove to myself that I could do it. To prove to myself I could be a writer, even if I didn’t want to be part of the writing world. I am so proud of myself for accomplishing this feat. I dedicated the novel to my Grandma, Teresa Elaine Morgan Durant, who has always inspired me to want to write. She was a writer, in her own way. Writing is a way to communicate with people through our spirits—it’s a way to touch someone’s soul with your soul without spoken words. In a way, it’s a way to touch your own soul without spoken words. Writing down my feelings often lets them breathe in a way saying them never could. It’s safe, but it’s risky. Just like me, poetry is intricate and complex—it’s beautiful in every aspect, and one of the most beautiful things about poetry is the discovery of finding nuances and breaths and life.  

Writing has many forms, and my strongest genre is poetry. I love reading it. I love writing it. You can find inspiration in so many things. I have gone through many ebbs and flows writing poetry. Truthfully, the poetry is always written in me, I just can’t always get it on paper. Which is frustrating and annoying. I wish I was a poet who could produce hundreds of poems in a sitting, but that’s not who I am. I weigh every word, every punctuation mark, so I get every point I want to express, across. Whenever I struggle to write poetry, I read e.e. cummings’ somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond:  
somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond 
any experience,your eyes have their silence: 
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me 
or which I cannot touch because they are too near 
 
your slightest look easily will unclose me 
though I have closed myself as fingers 
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens 
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose 
 
or if your wish be to close me, I and 
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, 
as when the heart of this flower imagines 
the snow carefully everywhere descending; 
 
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals 
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture 
compels me with the color of its countries 
rendering death and forever with each breathing 
 
(i do not know what it is about you that closes 
and opens;only something in me understands 
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) 
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

What I love about Cummings’ works is he found profound beauty in everything. This poem, in particular, reminds me of the immense fragility of sublime beauty. I love Cummings doesn’t confine himself to the boundaries of punctuation and capitalization. His poems do not often rhyme, but they rhyme in the way they are supposed to: the tone, the meaning, the world. He wasn’t afraid to experiment with grammar and typography. Norman Friedman, cummings’ biographer, wrote, “Transform the word, he seems to have felt, and you are on the way to transforming the world.” Writing is transforming the world through transforming the word. One of the best gifts I ever received was cummings’ complete works (thanks Tiny). 

In ways, poetry is like a dream. You get everything you feel inside written on paper. There is a certain freedom to write poetry. I prefer free verse (no rhyme), and I love avoiding the rules of language (which I also love) as a form of poetic expression. The beauty is in the experimentation. Another thing I love about poetry is that I can write it to mean one thing, but you can interpret it another way. I always despised poetry classes in college in which the professors told me what the author thought when they wrote the poem. I never try to dissect poetry when I read it. I read it and felt it. Poetry is personal, and I believe everyone gets a different meaning from what they read. Why deconstruct something that doesn’t have to be torn apart? 

When I write poetry, I try to edit my poems as little as possible. Truthfully, most of the editing goes on before I even put pen to paper. For me, there is something raw and real—authentic—about the first draft. Sometimes, life is messy, so my poetry should be, too. I don’t often publish most of my poetry for others to read—I write it for myself. Yet, there are times, I need to share it. To make myself vulnerable. To let people in. To see a part of me that I keep private. 

As many of you know, Taylor Swift produced an album this month (National Poetry Month) called The Tortured Poets’ Society. While I agree writing lyrics to a song is a form of poetry, there are distinct aspects of songwriting. You want to make the writing relatable and catchy—you want to have a lyricism to what you write. It’s not the same. I have never liked the phrase “tortured poet” because it implies you are depressed or sad, but poetry is an expression of beauty, even in the unpleasant realities of the world. Truthfully, we can find beauty in everything. A Mouse and A Louse and A Red Wheelbarrow. Where do you find inspiration? What soothes your soul? What makes you want to dance and sing and shout words from the rooftops? Write about that. I have written about strength, beauty, breakups, longing, love, friendship, and so much more—poetry is healing and invigorating—poetry truly heals.  

Anything can be a poem, but not everyone can be a poet. Some of us have an innate ability to express ourselves poetically. While I am more gifted than most at poetic expression, I hone that skill. I listen to music—of all types. I read ALOT. I spend time in nature. I spend quiet time. I send notes to myself to remember things. I have little sticky notes everywhere. I send texts to myself, too. I am passionate about the things that I am passionate about. I write. (I am working on being more consistent on that one). I learn. I am quirky. I express myself in life. I am moody. I am me. I am learning not to care what other people think.  

As a poet, as a writer, I strongly encourage you to express yourself as you are. Don’t be afraid of what others might think of you. Here is a secret I’ve learned: it’s not about you; it’s about them. Some people may love you, and some people may hate you, and not to be a cliche, but as long as you love you, you’ll be all right. I am working on a poem—I’ve been working on it for almost a month—but I can’t convey the right meaning. If I ever figure it out, I might share it with the world, or I might keep it in the deepest crevasse of my heart. 

I don’t want to keep my writings locked away. I want to share them with the world. I am not sure the world is ready for every thought I have in my head. Lol. So, until that day comes, I will continue to write, and share when the spirit compels me. I encourage everyone to write—a journal, a letter, whatever works for you—because writing is powerful on many levels. If you don’t write for anyone else, write for you.