Once upon a time long ago, I began my writing life as a poet. Poetry is first and foremost a spoken art form, it is meant to be heard as much as it is meant to be seen or read. And so, as a poet, I did a lot of poetry readings.
I remember the earliest of them: I’d get up in front of the crowd of three or four people (okay, sometimes the crowds were much bigger, we’re talking large single digits) with a sheaf of poems clutched in my sweaty hands and I’d say “Hi. I’m Ute Carbone. And I’m a poet.”
After a time, it struck me that my introduction sounded a lot like something someone might say at an AA meeting (only with fewer participants). I could envision the scene:
I stand up “Hi. I’m Ute. I’m a—Poet.”
“Hi Ute,” chant the participants in unison.
“It’s been three days and four hours since I wrote my last poem.”
It turns out that poetry is a gateway obsession. I went from writing poems to writing short stories to (and here I’ll hang my head and whisper) writing novels.
I’m obsessed with novels, I admit it. I have untold number of words written in journals, some of which will never see the light. I spend my days talking to and about people that don’t really exist.
Yet something marvelous has come of this. Some of those words took root. Books, honest to goodness books, actually got written. And some of those books actually got or are getting published.
And now, I find I’m introducing myself to the readers here at the Writer’s Vineyard, my sweaty fingers prodding the laptop keys: Hi. I’m Ute. I’m a novelist. It’s been four hours and three minutes since I wrote my last scene.
Seems I’ve come full circle.
|My Novel, The P-Town Queen is coming to Champagne Books on June 4|