Writing for Myself

I've sent out some story ideas and essays to different magazines and newspapers, and we'll see what happens. What's that expression, "throw it out there and see if it sticks?" However, I've come to a new point in my life where I hope others will appreciate my work, yet I'm really writing for myself.

Hasn't every aspiring writer taken criticism and lived with self-doubt? Of course, the world of writing can be a pretty cruel place. My 11th grade English teacher accused me of plagiarism when I wrote a story about a boy who stopped eating because his parents got divorced. I guess I should have taken the accusation as a compliment, but I just brushed it off in my teenage way. (I've taught writing at both the 6th grade and college level, and I often wonder if my life would have been different if I had gotten encouragement at that age rather than suspicion.)

In college, I found myself among much more experienced writers who were also experienced in the art of critique, and I guess I was a little thin-skinned. That's when I stopped writing poetry.

Now I realize I love to write poetry, not to be published, but to express my thoughts in a concise manner.

When you share your writing, even in a blog, you are putting yourself out into the world for better or worse. But now I know it doesn't matter because I'm writing for me, and I hope you like it, too. So here's a poem I wrote for my mom. I hope you like it... I do.

Collecting Angels

It was always easy to find
Or make, a gift for her,
A collector of angels.

From Rome and Russia,
From the Curio Cottage
At the Women’s Club
To the streets of Buenos Aires,
She collected angels.

They’re scattered throughout the house,
Perched on the mantel,
Floating near the soap dish,
Embroidered on the hand towels.
Serenading her on the sill
Above the kitchen sink --
Her collected angels.

And then she flew away to join them,
Her parents, her brother, her friends,
Gathered together…
Our collected angels.