Not Doing What I Said in Tulsa

Vertigo, storms, and the company of community

Remember the six things I was going to do while in Tulsa? Yeah … I did one of them—the Woody Guthrie Center—and that was because it was the reason I went to Oklahoma in the first place. And because it would take a pack of wild boars to keep me from going to my day to read with the Woody Guthrie Poets.

It’s not entirely my fault. Doubleshot Coffee closes at noon on Sundays, and my other favorite coffee haunt, Foolish Things, doesn’t even open. I cancelled my hair spa appointment on Saturday since I was migrainey. And that’s what really led to me sleeping in and not leaving the hotel until it was time to go to the reading: the rain on Saturday and Saturday night still had my vertigo running wild. I was glad to just get myself together. Somewhat.

I put on one of my favorite dresses and checked my reflection in the full-length mirror in my room on my way out the door. But by the time I was in the hotel parking lot and caught a full-body glimpse of myself in a window, all I could see was my apron belly peeking out from where my dress had ridden up in the front.

Hell of a day to wear the beige chub rub shorts instead of the black ones that might have passed for my dress.

But did I go back to my room and change either garment? Of course not! Why take ten minutes to fix a problem when I can worry myself to death with a fat girl problem instead?

I’ve always loved speaking at this podium, but never more so than on belly-baring Sunday.

So I spent the day fidgeting with my dress, tugging it down in hopes of hitting the sweet spot where both my belly and boobs were clothed. But my knee tattoos looked fantastic!

Let me tell you something that, if you know me, probably isn’t a surprise: I love public speaking. I say that with zero sarcasm. I was a speech and debate nerd starting in middle school. When I was a chef, my favorite part of my job was teaching. I even had an agent for a while who tried to convince the Food Network and HGTV that I was The Next Big Thing (I’m not, and they agreed.). There’s a reason why I use the podcast and video cast functions on Substack—because I think it’s fun.

And yet, Woody Guthrie Poets is the only time I read my poetry in public. At first, it was because I wasn’t a poet. The first time I was chosen to participate in 2018, I wasn’t in the habit of writing poems. I took several months to write my entry, convinced I was doing everything wrong.

But the more years I’ve been included, the more poetry I write. Not just for Woody Guthrie Poets, but just because writing poetry has become something I really enjoy.

What I’ve learned from writing poetry in the last few years has been at the root of the Woody Guthrie manuscript rewrite. I’m stripping the original prose down to poetry, then rewriting the new prose from there.

Writing poetry has done more to improve my writing than any workshop or gimmick I’ve tried in all these years. I’m still not completely sure I’ve earned the title of “poet,” but poetry has helped my writing, and I love the act of putting my voice to my words.

And yet, do I ever go to any of the poetry open mics or events in St. Louis, or anywhere else I travel? Nope. The only exception was back in 2023 when, after two overly sweet Manhattans, I volunteered to read a silly piece I’d written five minutes earlier at The Green Mill’s Uptown Poetry Slam in Chicago.

Because I go big or stay home. There is no middle ground.

Written on the fly at The Green Mill with the prompt “Portillo’s, lavender, fork lift, and honky tonk”

Any other reading or open mic would likely be less intimidating than being a part of Woody Guthrie Poets. Not that the people themselves are intimidating—everyone I’ve met in this lovely community has been beyond kind and welcoming to me. Many people I’ve met at the readings are now friends. But wow! The pedigree of the poet is so far above “lady that’s been working on a Woody Guthrie book forfuckingever and decided to try something new.” It’s professors. Poets with stacks of their own published books. Pushcart Prize nominees and winners.

One year, I followed a poet who had won six Pushcart Prizes.

Please, just push my cart into the street. I am not supposed to be up here.

Sunday’s reading started with a Peabody Award nominee. He was as phenomenal as you’d imagine.

And my impostor syndrome was, too. So bad that most years, by my turn to read, I’ve felt the need to apologize for myself. My poems. My wardrobe malfunctions.

It’s so much easier to have this annual crisis of my abilities in a city where I’m not going to run into anyone at a coffeehouse later in the week. I think that’s the big reason why I avoid local poetry events. Much better to drive seven hours and be a hack, right?

Jokes aside, I’m finally feeling confident about my poetry. I didn’t apologize before my reading this year. My voice shook, and I felt like I was reading way too fast, and possibly on the verge of combusting, but I hit my marks and was even animated. Exceptionally so.

This year’s theme hit a nerve, and I did preface my reading by mentioning that I had lost my job four days after the theme was announced. It was from Woody’s “Born to Win”—

You robbed us and beat us and bled us.
You worked us and paid us like slaves.
I know we're all born to work and to fight
And to win or go down in our grave 

And I took that personally, channeling the rage I felt that first week of surprise unemployment into my first two poems.

It felt a little silly—it’s not like I was a coal miner who risked death daily on the job. But there was definitely some emotional and psychological injury from my time in Corporate America. Nothing in my adult life has left me feeling as inept and dispensable as my five years of copywriting at [redacted].

Once I got over the shock of my unemployment, I dove into writing. The stuff I wanted to do but never had the brain power at the end of the workday or week to do. First, my Woody Guthrie Poets entry. Then, rewriting my manuscript, which is about halfway finished. I have a goal of it being agent-ready by the end of September. Starting this Substack and having no problem putting my ass in the chair and writing posts.

Getting fired from a writing job succeeded in making me see and believe that yes, I am, indeed, a writer. I’m a poet. I’m not a copywriter or a marketing person. I don’t care much if Google crawls my page.

I want you to crawl my page.

As Sunday’s event ended, I was approached by a poet who was taking part in Woody Guthrie Poets for the first time. He had given the intro I usually give—”Uh, I don’t know how I got in here with all of the good poets. I apologize in advance.” And then he blew me out of the water with his work.

I told him that he gave my speech. And he told me how much he liked my reading. So did so many poets whose work astounds me with its beauty and truth. An editor in the audience even asked if I’d send one of my poems to her husband because she thought it might help him cope with a job he hates.

And that’s why I do this. Even when I feel like a hack. Or that I have to leave town to do it. I get on stage and open my big mouth in hopes, selfishly, that someone will recognize my truth and say, “That’s my truth, too. You’re not alone.”

Maybe someday I’ll be able to do that at home.

Paul Juhasz, Ky George, and Quinn Carver Johnson—poets I don't want to follow, please, because their goodness scares me.

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