My mother was my best reader. She always read what I wrote, and commented on it in some way. Either in the vague, not entirely complimentary way of "How'd you do that?" or "Why did you write that?" or in a very specific-to-the-line way that let me know she understood, and felt what I was trying to do. If I could make my mother or father laugh or cry through whatever project I was working on, I knew I was on the right track. Both of them were brilliant people with deep imaginations, talents, and skills. I wanted to be more like them, and I wanted them to understand how I viewed the world too.
What they loved to read was different. Mom read short stories, plays, Tom Robbins, David Sedaris, memoirs. Dad's tastes leaned toward the historic biography, sci-fi, and spy novels, and he loved any book that had to do with the legend of King Arthur. I'm not sure my father understood how he ended up with a poet for a daughter, but I think he enjoyed it to some degree.
After Mom died, I discovered all the publications of mine she'd saved. Many of them I'd forgotten about, including a newsletter I'd edited for a writing group, one of my very early poetry publications, and a program for a show I wrote.
My "why" for writing or creating anything was always to make my parents feel something, and respond. Pride in me was never the goal. The goal was always to connect with them on an emotional level.
Now I just hope to make anyone feel in a world full of numbing distractions, and I don't always feel up to it. My "why" is something of a "why bother?" on some days, a scattershot of thoughts I have to confront to get to the work. The only rule is work. That is how you catch onto things.
Ah, a memory: I am standing in my slanted kitchen in the house on Armstrong Street, twirling the six foot phone cord around my wrist like a bracelet. I am 35. I can hear my mother ask through the phone receiver, "So, what projects are you working on now?"
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