Last year my mother suggested I write a poetry book after reading some of my poems from the book and blog. My mother never knew that I liked to write poetry; she had never even read any of my poems – ever. In fact nobody in my entire life knew. It’s just something I liked to do and I kept it secret. I wrote poems for myself, and very occasionally for someone I cared about. I didn’t save the ones I wrote many years ago. I wish I had but it was because they were on hard copy only. But I hadn’t written for decades, since I was in high school, until I started writing my book and I started writing poetry as part of it.
At first, I thought the idea of me writing a poetry book was downright silly. “I’m not good enough of a writer. I’m not creative enough. My poems have meaning only for me…” was what I thought.
Lately, as I’ve reread some of my work, I’ve been thinking, “You know, it’s not half bad. I’ve certainly read worse before, even by published authors. I don’t think my writing is the best that’s ever been written, but it certainly isn’t the worst either.” So, maybe. Why not.
As part of my effort to reinvent myself, to pursue my dreams, and not let what others think prevent me from at least trying, I think I’m going to try to put together a book of poetry. It’s a good hobby to have, so why not. I think when I get to about 100 pieces that I think are reasonably good, I’ll compile a book of my poetry and submit to publishers. Probably under a different name/author than my actual. Like I’ve said, I really don’t like fame. I have no desire to be remembered, to be famous, after my time is up. I’d care a heck of a lot more how people thought about what kind of human being I was, than for them to remember my name because I was famous for something.
Hell, maybe I’ll even try to relearn how to play instruments and read music too. I was foolish as a teenager to ever stop. What regret I have.