I went to see Elizabeth Austen read at Open Books this week, from her book, Every Dress a Disaster. (Oops – it’s Every Dress a Decision. But my version sounds so much more dramatic!) She’s a great reader – she also works at KUOW, our local public radio, and so probably has a greater ear for poetry readings than most. The obsessions of the book: childlessness (or childfreeness), a dead brother, being a woman who wants to go camping alone – are pretty interesting to me.

We also hit the Star Wars Exhibit at the Pacific Science Center, which was in its closing weekend and was super crowded. Nevertheless, lots of fun stuff – the sand cruiser, Han Solo’s outfit, original props like light sabres and several giant Wookies. This is how you celebrate Mother’s Day when you don’t have kids and your mother is thousands of miles away! But I did thank my mom for having some really excellent musical taste over Facebook. Facebook is the new Hallmark card!

This week, if all goes to plan, I will see C. Dale Young read, Maya Zeller, and Rae Armantrout. What can I say? It’s a good town for poetry readings. I’ve been reading C. Dale’s Torn and really ended up loving the spiritual/scientific aspects of it, the way he marries the work of being a doctor and the consideration of the powers that be, and of course, the last title poem, which is a killer. I met Rae in San Diego briefly and I will make this observation; besides being kitchen-chef-knife-sharp, she is the kind of professor who attends every single student reading. And that is saying something.

I spent some time thinking about why we become writers. Can we point to any one thing – an encouraging teacher or parent, a tendency towards bookishness for whatever reason – that brought on the madness of trying to write? Here’s the list I came up with – you should try it too!

The Things Which Make Us Become Writers

Because I was colorblind, I wore purple and blue in layers, all shades of lavender to me.

Because I was dyslexic, and could not remember phone numbers or my own street address.

Because I was sickly, and missed family vacations and had all my toys burned.

Because I was allergic to the sun, I spent a lot of time indoors – with books.

Because I loved the images on television, but found the stories boring and so would make up new plots.

Because my father built robots but could not tell a joke without giving away the punchline.

Because my brothers are all much more interesting.

Because I considered myself an outcast in high school, though on greater reflection, I was not as much of an outcast as I thought at the time.

Because I love research and footnotes.

Because I am romantically attached to only one person, which saves a lot of time.

Because in my other life, I am a terrific lipstick sales person or software manager.

Because learning about botanical medicine made me want to draw pictures of plants.

Because I surround myself with words – words in the backgrounds of paintings, words on a screen, words on paper, words jumbled on the refrigerator.

Because my mother loved poetry, my grandmother loved Faulkner and my great-grandmother was the only literate person in her town and therefore postmistress. Yea, this is my great heritage as a woman of my bloodline – to be a person who reads.