Although the title might sound a bit banal at first, this poem represents two important steps I've taken in the last year in my development as a writer (I guess it's three steps, technically, since it comes in the form of a poem).
First, this poem talks about the realization I've come to that the ebb and flow of daily life around me is rife with opportunities to find content for writing. The stories are there, someone just has to take the time to carve them out.
Second, this poem contains a declaration that has taken me several years with which to grow comfortable making. Truthfully, I'm still feel a bit conspicuous saying it, but I know that's just the voice of doubt and insecurity trying to hold me back. I can say it because it's true..."I AM A WRITER!"
Research
by Andrew D. Doan
A middle-aged woman sits crying
In the driver’s seat of her car.
A child’s winter mitten is lying
On the sidewalk outside a sports bar.
The trim on the ceiling emblazoned with runes
In one of the city’s old haunts.
Shock-eyed and tail-less, a lonely cat moves
Past my window looking hostile and gaunt.
I am a writer. I like to take walks
In the city or on far-flung rural roads.
Taking deep breaths and occasional stops
So to learn what the local man knows.
I am a writer. I listen to music.
My catalog is eclectic—a bit odd.
But when the lyrics and arrangement bring weightiness to it,
A good song’s like a whisper from God.
I am a writer. I take many photos.
My camera of choice is my phone.
I’ll use an odd angle. Look high or look low.
Take the picture but make it my own.
I am a writer. I love to watch shows
And movies that matter and speak
Through subtext and dialogue that gradually grows
The characters motives and needs.
I am a writer so I of course I must read,
But it’s a challenge for me oftentimes.
For I’m not voracious nor gifted with speed.
I just plod through—line upon line.
They say that a writer is his own story.
Her experiences will determine her work.
Sometimes, when I hear that, I wonder and worry
That what I’ve got to say has no worth.
It seems, as a writer, my life is not grand.
It’s a hair’s breadth away from mundane.
A father. A teacher. A husband and friend.
Predictable, safe, clean, and sane.
But then I remember that all human writing
Is bound by at least one common theme.
It was penned by mere humans, each one of them trying
To capture a particular scene.
So, as a writer, I am continually training
To expand the scope of my work.
I read. I listen. I watch. And I’m straining
Through life’s endless bits of research.
I am a writer with a touch of obsession
To carve stories from whatever I can.
The ceiling. The cat. The woman’s depression.
The mitten that’s missing its hand.
I am a writer because that’s what I do.
It is me as much as my name.
Every picture’s a story being woven in view,
And every story’s in need of a frame.