Letter to Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge

Dear Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge,

Whirly, wispy, winter sits outside my window; brown tire tracks trail dirt in the clean snow. Just like the muddy tracks, I have dirt in my thoughts. I have accepted a way of writing that not only disillusions my voice, but cuts off who I am.

I never used to have problems writing. I could just look at the world, and I’d have something to say. I picked up ideas all over the place and wrote them down. It was within the words I had strung throughout every room, that I was told my writing was crazy.

My eighth grade English teacher, tall, prim, with a crooked smile, is the one who changed the way I write. He sat me down, and said he needed to talk to me. I had written about my love of words. He didn’t see it. He said he had asked me to open a can of worms, and that I did so, but then took handfuls and tossed them everywhere. He didn’t know where I was going, or what the point was. He told me to cut down, simplify, erase, revise, and simplify again. Trying to please him, I did this. I have not heard my voice since. I’ve caught glimpses of it sounding tight, sophisticated, and choked. I lost the life in my writing. I lost myself. I had a one-track train; it didn’t turn, loop, or even reverse. If I even strayed off the side, the shock collar that I seemed to wear burst with electric power.

I first read your book about three years ago, when I was nine. My grandma was flipping through it at the kitchen table one morning, and found a poem she and her sister had written. “Capricious rainbow, you do a pastel leap across the sky,” it began. I was astounded. It was fantastic—full of words! She told me your book, poemcrazy, brought out these free ideas and playful words. We read it together. I was enchanted.

Inspired to write, we threw around words, just as you suggested. We wrote them down, and tossed them into a red-hot bowl. Then we grabbed a handful of words out of the bowl, and wrote a poem using whichever ones we wanted. This process began freeing my voice and ideas. We made up words and let them come out as they pleased. We gave ourselves pen names and read our word pool poetry. I wrote: Star you fly away…beautiful like a poem, mighty like a tiger…you are my golden sky star.

I miss the freedom I had in these little poems.

Apokatas’ tasis. Out of apparent catastrophe, bring blessing, Greek. Until last night I had felt as if I had lost my voice. I told my mom, and she told me a story. My dad had rototilled our garden, and recent rain left the ground a mushy, muddy substance. I stepped outside in the dim sky, and saw worms. Everywhere. I ran inside. “You have to come see this!” I said breathless.

I want to write with worms everywhere again. I prefer them squirming under my feet, pearly light bulbs in the night. I’ve picked up your book again. I’m writing, and what do you know, here I am!

Thank you, Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge, for opening, and then re-opening my words. Your book has taught me the power of writing, and allowed to play with words—squish them like playdoh, and mix colors, just for the fun of it. I can move freely, carting more than one idea.

Ciao,

Freedom Dancer
Micaela Gerhardt