I was never really encouraged to do my own thing as a child. After my mom passed, I found a poem I wrote at age 5 and was filled with joy at the thought of being seen. I never felt seen or heard at that age or any other until adulthood. It was written in crayon on red construction paper and I still cherish it. I wrote a lot in high school into my late teens and then life happened (kids, jobs, worry, heart surgery, the death of both parents) and I didn’t revisit poetry until my early 40s. I’ll be 60 this year and wouldn’t know how to stop writing if I wanted to, which I don’t. I hope this isn’t too much.
When I was about 8 or 9 my mom got me my first Nancy Drew book, The Secret of the Old Clock. I wanted to be like her, solving mysteries, having a convertible, being independent. Reading opened up a world that took me away from unhappy parents. I didn’t start writing until much later in my life, but books have been faithful companions for me.
I love how you said that: "unhappy parents". I usually think in terms of how they made us unhappy (while knowing, of course, that their own unhappiness created the general environment). But how you said it was gentle. Indirect. And still spoke volumes.
Don't forget the way she was always glancing at her watch on her "slim wrist"! I wanted to be her too. So put together and sophisticated compared to my bucked teeth, frizzy haired self.
Stole my older sister’s Tapestry album from her room daily when I was 5,6,7. Poured over the lyrics. Sat in the woods and called out ‘Carole!’ and ‘James!’ thinking I had a friend, hoping they’d come running. They didn’t, but my lifelong obsession with lyrics and poetry did.
Song lyrics, yes! Especially my dad's music. Abbey Road was huge. I remember riding my bike in our neighborhood at dusk, singing "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" at top volume. The juxtaposition of creepy lyrics and friendly melody fascinated me. Also “Piano Man” by Billy Joel. I took everything literally, which created a fascinating scene in my head: a businessman being stoned like characters in the Bible; a woman putting pieces of bread in the piano man’s jar. It wasn’t exactly what the song was about, but giving serious consideration to every word has turned out to be my favorite mode of close reading.
I love the stories of learning the power of language from lyrics; and this line popping into my head from the Beatles' "Hey Jude": Take a sad song, and make it be-e-etter .. . " But my origin story was my second grade teacher in a small town with the wisdom to have us write poetry and not just Haiku. Seeing that I loved it, she gave me time to do more, letting me keep at a poem in the back of the class while they moved on to arithmetic or something else boring. She moved on for giving me a stick of gum to go write her a poem, maybe even a dime. Once she had me go down to the fourth grade class and read my poem to that class,Possibly the fourth grade teacher was shaming her class (even a second grader can do this, but I didn't get it then. I was just bringing my words to life when I read them aloud. I was hooked.
I love this. I had never considered that my love of music from an early age has probably been a hugely influential factor for my writing. Thanks Maggie. I'm off to ponder this further! Be back soon! (also. yes, the internet now & how differently we can access music & lyrics is astounding!)
Song lyrics and books and a seventh grade teacher, Mr. Carlisle Duke, inspired me to love words and writing. My poem at age 12 was the first piece I put on Substack. The books, Heidi, A Tree Grow in Brooklyn, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew and many others enthralled me. By seventh grade I was reading Virginia Woolf. I was 14 in 1964, which Jane Pauley once said made one the truest Beatles fan. Lyrics in my generation’s music were full of meaning and depth. I thought Eleanor Rigby was one of the finest poems I ever heard. Then I had the great fortune to meet and know people like John O’Donohue and other writers. Last Saturday I spent time in a workshop with Kim Stafford. Thought I had regressed and was high, but it was just the words, the beautiful words that had my endorphins spinning and spiraling. Thank you, Maggie.
Thank you Maggie, a beautiful invite to ponder our origin story. It sent me on a reverie of writing the names of rivers and bridges as I sat in the backseat our 70s car on holidays. My induction to writing about place, capturing the natural world that presents before me.
We had a student teacher when I was in grade 9ish who was a man (!! uncommon for us) and of course youngish, like 22. And he did a lesson on poetry using EA Robinson’s Richard Cory (traditional stuff, stressed and unstressed syllables, etc) and then played Paul Simon’s song and tried to get us to loosen the heck up and talk about adaptation and poetry as song lyrics. As a rule-follower from way back, this all seemed transgressive to me, so I thought “huh” and went back to paying attention to how to get good grades. I missed an opportunity, for sure.
But that’s ok—my insides had been lit up from the moment I got a copy of my very first book that nobody else had owned before me (youngest of five, lots of hand-me-down books). The Little Engine That Could, gorgeous colour illustrations, easy to read, and MINE ALONE. I still have it.
It took me a while (decades) to figure out how to break rules by learning them and then choosing to discard them. And I’d love that lesson on Richard Cory now.
Ah, I still have my parents speakers! They still work, though I only use them decoratively at this point. I have all my Mom’s and my aunts Beatles records, but they are so crackly I’m slowly replicating them with remastered versions. My record player sits atop the shelf my Dad built in the 60s. I have my second ever creative publication coming out in early May, called The Playlist, that is a flash piece of autobiography via songs, including my Mom influencing my love of The Beatles. Joy!
There's no question for me that music was my route into writing. The first thing I wrote (that wasn't a homework assignment) was a song ~ while on vacation in California when I was 13 ~ and I continued to think I was a songwriter for many years. I am not, but I still do the pen and paper and auditory experience of learning a new song on the guitar without the help of the internet, and then writing down the lyrics, without the help of the internet, to soak up the song only through my body.
Maggie,
I was never really encouraged to do my own thing as a child. After my mom passed, I found a poem I wrote at age 5 and was filled with joy at the thought of being seen. I never felt seen or heard at that age or any other until adulthood. It was written in crayon on red construction paper and I still cherish it. I wrote a lot in high school into my late teens and then life happened (kids, jobs, worry, heart surgery, the death of both parents) and I didn’t revisit poetry until my early 40s. I’ll be 60 this year and wouldn’t know how to stop writing if I wanted to, which I don’t. I hope this isn’t too much.
Never too much! I’m so glad you’re back at it, Kevin.
When I was about 8 or 9 my mom got me my first Nancy Drew book, The Secret of the Old Clock. I wanted to be like her, solving mysteries, having a convertible, being independent. Reading opened up a world that took me away from unhappy parents. I didn’t start writing until much later in my life, but books have been faithful companions for me.
I love how you said that: "unhappy parents". I usually think in terms of how they made us unhappy (while knowing, of course, that their own unhappiness created the general environment). But how you said it was gentle. Indirect. And still spoke volumes.
Thank you, Wendy. I knew my parents loved me and my brother, but they were two nice people who never could give the other what they needed.
The empathy and generosity in this “reading” of the people who raised you is moving, Valerie. I’m going to sit with this. Thank you. x
I'm so glad you knew you were loved. That's a lot, despite the tension of the incompatibility. "...two nice people..." who had a kind daughter...
Oh yes. I loved mysteries as a kid, too.
Don't forget the way she was always glancing at her watch on her "slim wrist"! I wanted to be her too. So put together and sophisticated compared to my bucked teeth, frizzy haired self.
I loved Nancy Drew! I wish I still had all those books.
Stole my older sister’s Tapestry album from her room daily when I was 5,6,7. Poured over the lyrics. Sat in the woods and called out ‘Carole!’ and ‘James!’ thinking I had a friend, hoping they’d come running. They didn’t, but my lifelong obsession with lyrics and poetry did.
Love your rock n roll poet heart, Maggs 🧡
Some of my favorites, too! Oh—and Carly Simon. (My youngest sister is named Carly…and I was named after an arid Stewart song!)
There’s a great book about Joni, Carole, and Carly called Girls Like Us. A great summer, sitting-outside-with-something-cold- read!
Song lyrics, yes! Especially my dad's music. Abbey Road was huge. I remember riding my bike in our neighborhood at dusk, singing "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" at top volume. The juxtaposition of creepy lyrics and friendly melody fascinated me. Also “Piano Man” by Billy Joel. I took everything literally, which created a fascinating scene in my head: a businessman being stoned like characters in the Bible; a woman putting pieces of bread in the piano man’s jar. It wasn’t exactly what the song was about, but giving serious consideration to every word has turned out to be my favorite mode of close reading.
“Bread in my jar”! Ha! I love that.
I love the stories of learning the power of language from lyrics; and this line popping into my head from the Beatles' "Hey Jude": Take a sad song, and make it be-e-etter .. . " But my origin story was my second grade teacher in a small town with the wisdom to have us write poetry and not just Haiku. Seeing that I loved it, she gave me time to do more, letting me keep at a poem in the back of the class while they moved on to arithmetic or something else boring. She moved on for giving me a stick of gum to go write her a poem, maybe even a dime. Once she had me go down to the fourth grade class and read my poem to that class,Possibly the fourth grade teacher was shaming her class (even a second grader can do this, but I didn't get it then. I was just bringing my words to life when I read them aloud. I was hooked.
Good teachers are so often the gateway, aren’t they?
I love this. I had never considered that my love of music from an early age has probably been a hugely influential factor for my writing. Thanks Maggie. I'm off to ponder this further! Be back soon! (also. yes, the internet now & how differently we can access music & lyrics is astounding!)
Love that this got you thinking, Kara!
Song lyrics and books and a seventh grade teacher, Mr. Carlisle Duke, inspired me to love words and writing. My poem at age 12 was the first piece I put on Substack. The books, Heidi, A Tree Grow in Brooklyn, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew and many others enthralled me. By seventh grade I was reading Virginia Woolf. I was 14 in 1964, which Jane Pauley once said made one the truest Beatles fan. Lyrics in my generation’s music were full of meaning and depth. I thought Eleanor Rigby was one of the finest poems I ever heard. Then I had the great fortune to meet and know people like John O’Donohue and other writers. Last Saturday I spent time in a workshop with Kim Stafford. Thought I had regressed and was high, but it was just the words, the beautiful words that had my endorphins spinning and spiraling. Thank you, Maggie.
High on language. I love that. Thank you, Ginevra.
Thank you Maggie, a beautiful invite to ponder our origin story. It sent me on a reverie of writing the names of rivers and bridges as I sat in the backseat our 70s car on holidays. My induction to writing about place, capturing the natural world that presents before me.
What an evocative memory. Thanks for sharing it, Vicki.
We had a student teacher when I was in grade 9ish who was a man (!! uncommon for us) and of course youngish, like 22. And he did a lesson on poetry using EA Robinson’s Richard Cory (traditional stuff, stressed and unstressed syllables, etc) and then played Paul Simon’s song and tried to get us to loosen the heck up and talk about adaptation and poetry as song lyrics. As a rule-follower from way back, this all seemed transgressive to me, so I thought “huh” and went back to paying attention to how to get good grades. I missed an opportunity, for sure.
But that’s ok—my insides had been lit up from the moment I got a copy of my very first book that nobody else had owned before me (youngest of five, lots of hand-me-down books). The Little Engine That Could, gorgeous colour illustrations, easy to read, and MINE ALONE. I still have it.
It took me a while (decades) to figure out how to break rules by learning them and then choosing to discard them. And I’d love that lesson on Richard Cory now.
Ah, I still have my parents speakers! They still work, though I only use them decoratively at this point. I have all my Mom’s and my aunts Beatles records, but they are so crackly I’m slowly replicating them with remastered versions. My record player sits atop the shelf my Dad built in the 60s. I have my second ever creative publication coming out in early May, called The Playlist, that is a flash piece of autobiography via songs, including my Mom influencing my love of The Beatles. Joy!
There's no question for me that music was my route into writing. The first thing I wrote (that wasn't a homework assignment) was a song ~ while on vacation in California when I was 13 ~ and I continued to think I was a songwriter for many years. I am not, but I still do the pen and paper and auditory experience of learning a new song on the guitar without the help of the internet, and then writing down the lyrics, without the help of the internet, to soak up the song only through my body.
Mine was being surrounded by books but also the stories that my parents (especially my mum) would tell me.