My sister is a writer. Part of the reason why I pursued writing was because of her. Ever since I can remember I have always wanted to be like my older sister. The books she read, the music she listened to–I read them, I listened to them. By the time I reached high school, she had introduced me to books beyond Sweet Dreams and Sweet Valley High. When she started keeping notebooks, writing every chance she got, I started to write too. I liked to draw like my dad and enjoyed my Math and Science subjects in school, but I also kept writing. Putting words together on my own–no equations or formula to come up with the right answer–made me happy.
In college she studied Creative Writing and wrote poetry and fiction. I studied communication and wrote about communication theories, movies, people, advertising and public relations. I write as if I’m running and I stumble most of the time. When you read her writing–both her poetry and prose–you know each word and punctuation was meticulously selected. As it should be. It flows elegantly, thoughtfully. I have been writing for a living for more than a decade and I know I still have a lot to learn.
With her passion for poetry, she and some of her peers formed High Chair almost a decade ago. It’s a non-profit small press that aims to promote genuine interest in poetry in the country. Its Issue 13 is now online and it includes one of her recent poems. It’s about our dad. We both write about him in our own different ways.
These days I like to sit patiently in front of objects.
Pink bowl, a piece of fruit, coral, paper clip.
If I sit quiet enough, time enough, cup
my attention to drink each matter enough
nothing happens. The bowl is not a symbol.
I can watch the skin, bruise, sickly, blacken.
All is a commonplace. A startle is a scandal.
The coral, dead, lacks sentiment. The clip, practical.
I used to like to sit in front of you, patient
with affliction. I drank from it your company.
Nothing was actually happening. How happy we were.