TABLE OF CONTENTS
I struggle with remembering I am alive. Every once in a while, I am reminded of that, and I am suddenly grateful—as if I had never realized it before. It is a lot like not knowing the pad of your finger is bleeding until you look at it. You do not realize it hurts, either. It hurts more when you look at it and press it to a page of paper. Whenever I remember I am alive, I must grab myself by the shoulders and shake my frame.
I have collected some moments where I remember that feeling; my attempts to put it into words.
As I curated this exhibition, I found an immense amount of emotional release, as writing has always been for me. I never really had people want to read my writing, much less provide detailed feedback. I had always wished for scrutiny—that way I would be a better writer, and maybe, I could finally be able to put those unexplainable things into words; finally be able to tell myself, I am proud of you, and you are good, and you have so much to offer, and you are alive!
I think that's the best part of all of this. I noticed a lot of my writing before Writer's House was so ... sad. My writing was as isolated as I felt writing it. I remember one of my childhood friend's told me that I sang well, but it sounded muffled; like my voice stayed stuck in my throat. Of course, I learned what that meant years later, suddenly able to sing from the very depths of my stomach and have the sound of my voice reverberate beyond my lips. I did not realize that is how I wrote until I stopped writing like that: muffled and afraid and terribly, terribly alone.
I like to think I am terribly fond of criticism, now, whether it's obvious or not. I was not always this way. Probably, not even until recently. When it came to the critique on my writing, it usually fell along the lines of less isolation—that maybe my pronoun usage could be more clear-cut, or even less narration and opting to show more than you tell. I have a greater audience to communicate with, so I cannot write like it is solely for my eyes, in the safety of my bedroom, beyond the reaches of my countless online folders and documents protected by passwords and recaptchas. In this newfound freedom, I found myself intrigued in curating a raw sensory experience for the reader and myself. Particularly, I was struck by the lesson on having power over the texture of a piece through imagery, as discussed with The Fish by Elizabeth Bishop.
However, the most transformative experience so far in this course is, undeniably, the group workshops where pieces were scrutinized in the best way possible. I remember feeling so nervous for my first workshop, and even now, I’m still getting used to speaking up with the group. Reading my classmates’ work not only allowed me to help them better themselves, but I was able to learn their techniques, as well as understand what they desired to convey in their writing and exactly how to do so. Providing feedback to others served as practice for doing the same with myself, as I had a tendency to be harsher when it came to my work; as if I was not my own friend. I read and write more like a friend to myself, thanks to the friends I’ve made at Writer’s House.
With my revisions, I focused on communication between the reader and the poet. Whether that be through increased sensory diction or formatting changes to incur specific emotions and/or actions by the reader, such as pausing or breathing—I wanted intention more than anything to reflect in my writing. I write to myself, as a friend, striking up conversation with the parts of myself I isolated for as long as I needed.
I'm glad it is done. To many more conversations, songs, questions, confusion, and, best of all: scrutiny.
Happy reading.
Take care,
Andre Kim Kessel