Beyond Here

Posting recent poetry to the largely faceless masses is something that would surprise my past self. While I am no stranger to acting out for fun and attention, my prose has always been relatively private. (Well, mostly. My Snape fan fiction in high school was a big hit amongst my friends...I never did finish that... And I always loved a good writing assignment in my English classes.) I was urged by my seventh grade Reading teacher, Mrs. Hanson (I had to take Reading because I refused to take a language) to submit a piece or two (or three) to a regional poetry contest. While I was not fond of the one she chose to submit without my knowledge, I ended up winning a place in my age category! Somewhere out there I am a published poet. I was made to go to a local assembly at another school, get up in front of a massive crowd, and read my poem aloud. Public speaking has never triggered any sort of visceral response in me, being a theater kid from the start (I had a Charlie McCarthy doll, and can still do a little ventriloquy...if you ask nicely...) It was the baring of my heart and soul for the consumption of strangers, then the growing fear as I neared the end of the reading, wondering if I will also gain their approval as I had the judges. I did, or they were just being kind. Either way, sharing such private memories and feelings in this format, full of similes and metaphors, as a child of 13 was harrowing to say the least.

Now, though, my need for approval is less than my need for attention. (Haha! I kid...kind of...) Honestly, my poetry could be real crap. Honestly, I don't care if that's the impression others get, now. This public journal may be the modern seeking of attention, but it is also merely a public diary. I am an open book; I always have been. When I start a new job, the intention to keep some cards close to my chest flies straight out the window as soon as one or two people seem to accept me as one of them. And that's okay for the most part. It certainly means I can be crushed more easily than if I could keep my armor on, but it also gives me fodder for writing, drawing, singing, etc.

I digress. The point of this post is buried deep within the introduction of the reading teacher. When I won the spot in the poetry competition, she went to the assembly and sat with my parents. After the recitations of my age group, I met up with the three of them in the intermission. Mrs. Hanson gifted me a beautiful journal (my first in a very long line, if memory serves), which I vowed to only use for my poetry. Flipping through the pages, I came across a mostly blank page. Apparently, I had been about to write a new piece, but only got as far as the title and "By: Renee Wozniak." That title, which seems rather poignant floating at the top of a blank page in my bitter and jaded middle age, is simply "Beyond Here." I guess I was deeper than anyone knew, including myself.