In the Beginning

An introduction to Andrea Is Writing

Hi there.

I've been writing on the Internet for a long time. I've been writing off the Internet for even longer. As much as I love writing, I stopped doing it for a while. I struggle with the beast of perfectionism and thought that if I couldn't write as well as I wanted to, I wouldn't write at all. I've been writing blog posts about books, reading, and libraries for a few years, but I stopped writing poetry altogether. I felt like I would never be as good as Mary Oliver or John Donne, so why bother?

But I love poetry. I love reading it, and, yes, I love writing it. And I missed writing it. Whenever I let perfectionism win, I miss out on something. That "something" is usually fun. Earlier this year, a writer I admire said writing is like play. Instead of a lightbulb going off in my head, I felt like an entire chandelier was coming to life. Maybe I can't write a sonnet like Donne, but I can play. Maybe I can't write a stanza like Oliver or Plath or Angelou or Eliot, but I can play. I can definitely play.

So why does this space exist?

Because I want to play. I want to get joy from writing new pieces. I want to celebrate past accomplishments and share older poems I'm proud to have written. I want to celebrate other poets and discuss what makes their work so good. I want to connect with other readers and writers who love poetry as much as I do.

I hope you’ll join me.

I’ll be sharing one post a week on Thursdays.

Let’s get to know each other.

Leave a comment below and share a poem (or poems!) you love. I’ll go first.

Photo by S O C I A L . C U T on Unsplash

“Telephone Repairman” by Joseph Millar

All morning in the February light
he has been mending cable,
splicing the pairs of wires together
according to their colors,
white-blue to white-blue
violet-slate to violet-slate,
in the warehouse attic by the river.

When he is finished
the messages will flow along the line: thank you for the gift,
please come to the baptism,
the bill is now past due:
voices that flicker and gleam back and forth
across the tracer-colored wires.

We live so much of our lives
without telling anyone,
going out before dawn,
working all day by ourselves,
shaking our heads in silence
at the news on the radio.
He thinks of the many signals
flying in the air around him
the syllables fluttering,
saying please love me,
from continent to continent
over the curve of the earth.

(source)

Thanks for reading. Have some fun playing around this week.

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