Books like Poemcrazy — picked by fans

I’ve worked in the wonderful world of storytelling for the last thirty years. I’m an award-winning writer, Telly Award-winning screenwriter, acclaimed short filmmaker, educator, and creator suffering from occasional self-doubt. One of the greatest honors of my life is that I’ve been invited to judge the work of other writers in major competitions around the world. As a result, I’ve come into direct contact with thousands of writers. Many of them have stories trapped inside their minds that they think would make an excellent movie or television series. But screenwriting is incredibly structured, and the expectations of what a script should be can catch many newcomers off guard. 

As a published author with an MFA in Writing, I know how hard writing can be in terms of how to find a muse, employ an elusive craft, and deal with the soul-shaking consequences of digging deep. But as a survivor of life, including multiple moves, broken relationships, alcoholism, illness, and debilitating grief, I've also experienced the transformative power of writing. I took that belief into the community, and developed writing workshops for cancer survivors, women facing domestic violence, and many other people wrestling with trauma and illness, often recommending some of these books in my workshops. And along the way, I’ve witnessed time and again what the written word can do. 

Years ago, I returned to school at Mount Holyoke College to complete my bachelor’s degree in American Studies. I took a course on Emily Dickinson at the poet’s home in Amherst, Massachusetts—what a thrill! On the first day of class I learned that for sixteen years Emily’s constant companion was Carlo, a Newfoundland dog. Having experienced a hairy, slobbery encounter with a Newf when I was twenty while wearing a white dress, I knew the myth of Emily, pristinely dressed, untouched by the more earthy emotions was wrong. A new story needed to be told. That was the beginning of Emily and Carlo.

As a kid, I loved how words on a page transported me. Later, I was astounded by how the words I wrote myself could help me solve problems, deepen my understanding, and expand my thinking. Over time, that writing offered clarity and built my confidence. And in my most challenging times, writing has saved me over and over again. Learning to observe like a writer or an artist continues to help me be more present in my life. Sharing expressive writing experiences with others, during a 35-year career as a writer and workshop facilitator, allowed me to witness how this creative engagement offers a respite while building resilience and joy in others too.

I’m a poet, lover of great literature, and an English professor who has served as faculty advisor to my university’s student-run literary journal. I caught the bug as a teenager when I first started reading and memorizing poems that moved and intrigued me. Since then, reading and writing poetry—and having the pleasure of teaching it to students—has been my best way of checking in with myself to see what’s most important to me that I may have lost sight of in the daily bustle. It’s also my best way of going beyond myself—allowing my imagination to carry me to unexpected places.

When I was going through the process of adopting my second child, after having my first by a more conventional route, I looked for diverse representations of mothering to help me make sense of my journey. These recommended books helped me to understand the lived experience from all sides of the adoption triangle: adoptee, birth mother, and adopter. I was curious about the experience of other mothers whose children have an additional mother and found a lack of life writing on surrogacy and egg donation. As a published novelist and poet, I decided to move into experimental life writing and undertook a PhD in Creative Writing to discover and write their stories.

I have lived in North Norfolk for more than thirty years and grown to love its creeks, dunes, crumbling cliffs, and atmospheric church towers. I’ve spent years working in a shed in the garden of my remote flint cottage (originally built as a hovel), writing features for national newspapers and magazines. I’ve visited grand old mansions with eccentric aristocratic owners; become familiar with the setting for L.P. Harley’s The Go-Between; been fascinated by the steam trains and railways that once linked ocean and fen; listened to skeins of geese flying overhead each winter; and been transported by the spiritual dimension in the vast horizontals of land, sea, and sky. 

People come to songwriting from all different directions. Some have wanted to do this since they were little kids. Some like to make their parents mad. Some are wildly talented but crippled with doubt. All I can say is that no matter which way you’re facing, I think I can help you. I say this because I’ve been teaching college-level songwriting for years now, and every semester I have students who want to meet with me for office hours. They’re all repeat customers and I’ve noticed that many of them ask repeat questions. The point of my book, Music, Lyrics, and Life, is to try to address those repeat questions because chances are good that you have them, too. 

I’ve never felt that fiction was quite enough. Like a dream that someone tells you, it’s arbitrary and slightly meaningless to anyone but the dreamer. Nonfiction is nice, but because what is described did, in fact, actually happen, it can’t happen any other way. And where’s the fun (or art) in that? Autofiction, which tries to blur the line between the two, seems to draw attention to itself, making the author of the story more important than the actual story. So what’s the answer? There is no answer. But every now and then, a book seems not to care about the difference and, therefore, transcends it. 

When I was eighteen, I had an experience I call religious: I was sitting outside of an ivy-covered building at my undergraduate school and reading the opening words of Vergil’s Roman epic, The Aeneid (in Latin, but I didn’t know Latin yet). The sky became clearer; it shone with different light. It became clear to me at that moment that I was supposed to be a poet. So, yeah, I went on to learn lots of stuff, including languages, so that I could read poetry in them. I did all that to serve the greater goal of being a poet.