Point of Retreat

was intrigued. She said it would be good for Kiersten to see a slam. Kiersten said doing a slam would be good for her portfolio, so she brought a pen and a notebook to take notes.
     
    “Alright, who’s thirsty?” I take drink orders and head to the bar before the sac is brought on stage to perform. I explained the rules to all the kids on the way here, so I think they have a pretty good understanding of it. I haven’t told them I’m performing though. I want it to be a surprise. Lake doesn’t know either, so before I take the drinks back to the table, I go pay my fee.
     
    “This is so cool,” Kiersten says when I get back to the booth. “You guys are the coolest parents ever.”
     
    “No they aren’t,” Kel says. “They don’t let us cuss.”
     
    Lake hushes them as the first performer steps up to the microphone. I recognize the guy; I’ve seen him perform here a lot. He’s really good. I put my arm around Lake and he begins his poem.
     
    “My name is Edmund Davis-Quinn and this is a piece I wrote called Write Poorly .”
     

 
     
     
    Write poorly.
Suck
Write awful
Terribly
Frightfully
     
    Don’t care
Turn off the inner editor
Let yourself write
Let it flow
Let yourself fail
     
    Do something crazy
Write fifty thousand words in the month of November.
I did it.
It was fun, it was insane it was one thousand six hundred and sixty seven words a day.
It was possible.
     
    But, you have to turn off your inner critic.
     
    Off completely.
Just write.
Quickly.
In Bursts.
     
    With joy.
If you can’t write, run away for a few.
Come back.
Write again.
     
    Writing is like anything else.
You won’t get good at it immediately.
It’s a craft you have to keep getting better.
You don’t get to Julliard, unless you practice.
If you want to get to Carnegie Hall, practice , practice , practice.
…or give them a lot of money.
     
    Like anything else it takes ten thousand hours to get to mastery.
Just like Malcolm Gladwell says.
     
     
    So write.
Fail.
Get your thoughts down.
Let it rest.
Let it marinate.
Then edit.
     
    But don’t edit as you type,
that just slows the brain down.
Find a daily practice,
for me it’s blogging every day.
And it’s fun.
     
    The more you write , the easier it gets. The more it is a flow , the less a worry . It’s not for school, it’s not for a grade, it’s just to get your thoughts out there.
     
    You know they want to come out.
     
    So keep at it. Make it a practice. And write poorly , write awfully, write with abandon and it may end up being
     
    really
     
    really
     
    good.
     
     
     
     
     
    When the crowd starts cheering I glance at the kids. They’re all just staring at the stage. “Holy shit,” Kiersten says. “This is awesome. That was incredible.”
     
    “Why are you just now bringing us here, Will? This is so cool!” Caulder says.
     
    I’m surprised they all seem to like it as much as they do. They’re relatively quiet the rest of the night as they watch the performers. Kiersten keeps writing in her notebook. I’m not sure what kind of notes she’s taking but I can see she’s really into it. I make a mental note to give her some of my older poems later.
     
    “Next up, Will Cooper,” the emcee says. Everyone at the table looks at me, surprised.
     
    “Are you doing one?” Lake says. I just smile at her and nod as I stand up and walk away from the table.
     
    I used to get nervous when I would perform. A small part of me still does, but I think it’s more the adrenaline rush than anything. The first time I ever came here was with my father. He was really into the arts. Music, poetry, painting, reading, writing. All of it. I saw him perform here for the first time when I was fifteen. I’ve been hooked since. I hate that Caulder never got to know that side of him. I’ve kept as much of my dad’s writings as I could find, even a couple of old paintings. Someday I’ll give them all to Caulder. Someday when he's old enough to appreciate it.
     
    I take the stage and walk up to the microphone, adjusting the height of it. My poem isn’t going to make sense to anyone besides Lake. This one’s just for her.
     
    “My piece is called Point of Retreat, ” I say into the microphone. The spotlight is bright, so I can’t see her from up here, but I have a pretty good idea she’s smiling. I don’t rush the words of the poem, I perform it slow so she can take in every word of it.
     
     
     
     
     
    Twenty-two hours and