I sadly admit it. I used to write poems.
And yes, somewhere buried in my room there is a notebook or two of my work.
But I had a good reason for writing poetry. And, surprisingly enough, it’s testosterone related.
Back in the day, I used to go to college. If I ever got off my ass and got my paperwork together, I’d have enough credits for either an associates degree in general studies, or if I ever took another class or two, I could get an associates degree with an English major. At least that’s how I remember it from the conversation I had with a counselor years ago. Anywho…
My forte in college was English. Not so much that I had a knack for it, but more so it was easier to bullshit my way through papers. Something you can’t really do with math or science. Give me a six page English final over a three problem math final any day of the week, because I can wing a paper like nobody’s business.
One of the classes I took in about my third semester was a creative writing class. Oh man, when I saw that one offered, that was a dream come true. To me, it was a gimme “A.” I mean, how could I not get an A? Aside from grammatical errors, grading was subjective. And if I could nail my regular English classes, this one was going to be a breeze. And it more or less was. But, again, I’m digressing.
About the third day of class, the teacher (I forgot his name, but he was probably one of the best teachers I ever had) stood at the top of the room and said, “All of the short-story writers on this side of the room (his right), and all of the poets on this side of the room (his left, duh).”
I was in the direct middle of the room. There were five rows. I was in row three. In the back. As I had not yet decided what I was going to write (I was there to hone my writing and get a grade), I just sat there as people moved around to their appropriate spots.
Plus, I wanted to see who moved where.
As it happened, all of the women moved to the poet side and all of the men moved to the short-story side.
Me? Yeah. That day I became a poet for the first time ever. I never even knew I had it in me.
In a class of about 20 people, I was sitting with all of the women, loving every minute of it. Well, there was that one girl that sat on the short-story side, but she could stay there as far as I was concerned.
And, ironically enough, I busted my ass writing in that class more than any other class I had taken up to that point. It’s amazing the work you put in when you are trying to impress.
I’m not embarassed about being a poemboi. I had good reason.
And I still never called myself a writer.