writing my life: a narrative and poetic-based autoethnography
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This article was downloaded by: ["Queen's University Libraries, Kingston"]On: 07 October 2014, At: 14:43Publisher: RoutledgeInforma Ltd Registered in England and Wales Registered Number: 1072954 Registeredoffice: Mortimer House, 37-41 Mortimer Street, London W1T 3JH, UK
Journal of Poetry Therapy: TheInterdisciplinary Journal of Practice,Theory, Research and EducationPublication details, including instructions for authors andsubscription information:http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/tjpt20
Writing my life: a narrative and poetic-based autoethnographyKristen C. Blinne aa Department of Communication , University of South Florida ,Tampa, FL, USAPublished online: 02 Aug 2010.
To cite this article: Kristen C. Blinne (2010) Writing my life: a narrative and poetic-basedautoethnography, Journal of Poetry Therapy: The Interdisciplinary Journal of Practice, Theory,Research and Education, 23:3, 183-190, DOI: 10.1080/08893675.2010.498214
To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/08893675.2010.498214
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Writing my life: a narrative andpoetic-based autoethnography
Kristen C. Blinne*Department of Communication, University of South Florida, Tampa, FL, USA
This essay is an autoethnographic account of my life as a writer writing my life. I employ narrative
and poetic inquiry as a way to learn, know, and become more aware of my journey with writing as a
healing modality. The overall purpose of this essay is to offer a personal account of my writing
experience as a means to contribute to the ongoing exploration of writing as a communicative practice
and method of inquiry; with the hope that by sharing my story, my words will resonate with readers/
writers/poets.
Keywords Autoethnography; healing; narrative; poetic inquiry; writing
i’m falling
apart
around
into
myself
searching for a feeling
that has escaped me
i’m running
away
beside
to
myself
trying to escape a feeling
that chases me
*Tel: 813.974.2145. Fax: 813.974.6817. Email: kblinne@mail.usf.edu
Journal of Poetry Therapy(September 2010), Vol. 23, No. 3, pp. 183�190
ISSN 0889-3675 print # 2010 National Association for Poetry Therapy
DOI: 10.1080/08893675.2010.498214
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i’m looking
outside
under
within
myself
writing to find
what is hidden.
I write myself because my thoughts are tactile. Like tiny roots extending to form a
mighty oak, my thoughts flow, like water, through the branches of my arms to paper,
connecting my NOW with yesterday and tomorrow. These roots extend beyond what
is written and form dense clusters of time, stretching for decades, and creating a
garden of my thoughts, experiences, triumphs, and failures. I write myself because
not to do so would be unimaginable. As the seed contains the forest, I plant written
ideas that pollinate, grow, and decay or die.
My thoughts are tactile because without writing them, I feel lost, disconnected,
and disembodied. Writing bridges my body, my mind, and my heart to become
something more. As the pen gently caresses the page, I am seduced by writing. It
fuels me. I am inspired and lost in the tenderness of its embrace. Writing consoles.
It challenges, extends, dreams, and moves me beyond myself. I feel writing. I taste it,
see it, and smell it. But mostly, writing touches me. The simple act of transforming
thought and feeling into letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, and stories is a
sacred act. My pen and I dance through time, sometimes slowly like a romantic
Rumba, sometimes in a frenzy, like a fiery Paso Doble.
I create writing because writing creates me. We coexist*sometimes peacefully,
sometimes at war with each other. For me, writing is painful. From the base of my
hand to the tip of my index finger*sometimes ring or middle or all*pain radiates in
a straight line settling into stiffness and discomfort. The letters form more slowly on
these days because my body has trouble catching up with my mind, so deeply
engaged in the writing. As I type, it hurts. I remind myself: the words are already there,
the story is already written, it’s all about feeling which letters to write.
I cannot remember a moment in my life that has not been shaped by writing.
From my earliest beginnings, writing has always been part of the negotiation. The joy
of making letters and hearing my mother’s bedtime stories all set the stage for this
story.
I bounced into the room full of energy and excitement. It was a special day. I was
proud of the crayon-based contract I had created, now ready to unveil to my parents.
Both my mother and father sat quietly enjoying some afternoon reading in the living
room, while I had been secretly drawing up a detailed, yet still artistic contract that
(mis)spelled out the terms of our agreement.
‘‘Mom, Dad,’’ I chirped, announcing my presence in the room, ‘‘I have something
for you to sign.’’ Both looked up puzzled. I took a seat between them on the long,
u-shaped, white textured sectional in the living room-ready to make my case:
184 K. C. Blinne
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‘‘See, all you have to do is sign here at the bottom,’’ I stated insistently.
‘‘Kristen, what is this?’’ My father responded.
‘‘It’s a contract for you,’’ I replied enthusiastically.
My mom chimed in, ‘‘I can’t wait.’’
‘‘It is for a pony, of course,’’ I said, smiling at the sheer brilliance of the plan.
My dad laughed, ‘‘A pony, huh? Why do you need a pony?’’
‘‘Dad, that’s not important,’’ I assert. ‘‘All you have to do is sign here to
make it official.’’
My mom, now looking over the contract, questioned: ‘‘It says here that the
pony should be delivered by Christmas*is that correct?’’
‘‘Or sooner,’’ I say, beaming.
‘‘Kristen, we will have to look over the details of this contract as it is never
wise to sign anything without reading the fine print.’’ She solemnly directed
her gaze at my dad. ‘‘We will have our lawyers look this over, take it under
consideration, and get back with you.’’
‘‘Yes!’’ I shouted, bouncing back out of the room.
I was so pleased to have drafted such a fine, binding document that the thought never
crossed my mind that said pony might not arrive in time for Christmas*or ever.
These detailed lists of Christmas needs became a writing ritual growing up.
I spent countless hours going through the Sears catalog, researching all of the new,
necessary, and entirely unaffordable treasures that I was sure would make my life
more exciting. These letters to Santa and lists of proposed Christmas booty served as
my earliest attempts to transform my inward self on paper. The pony contract,
though unsuccessful, still captures the intensity of how I felt writing could help me
secure, in tangible form, the most desirable, unattainable dreams that I had
imagined.
But writing has always been more than just making lists and trying to manipulate
my parents into pony ownership. Writing as a sensual act has always fascinated me.
Making the perfect cursive letter, inventing and reinventing my signature, and
spending countless hours trying to mimic my mother’s perfect Palmer penmanship
all form the basis and entry into my love of the written word. From contracts and
lists, I progressed to the secret, exciting world of the diary. At seven, I received a
shiny, pink, metallic-looking diary with a special lock and a set of colored pens (pink,
blue, and green) to go with it. At first, I was stumped by how having this blank book
could benefit me, but over time, it became a place that I could visit where no one else
was allowed.
I escaped into the diary’s pink pages and tried to make sense of the activities of
my everyday life. From my crushes on boys at school to the death of my aunt, then
later my grandmother, I found the pages comforting. I taught my diary all about me
and shared my most intimate secrets. We were friends, and I deeply enjoyed my
diary’s company; however, over time, we fell out of contact. It was a mutual
parting, I believe. We just grew out of each other. I moved on to crisp, white sheets
of paper, loosely organized, and noncolored pens. My diary became a journal, and
my journal no longer was for my eyes only. In junior high, my best friend Michelle
Writing my life 185
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and I spent countless hours journaling, and at the end of our stories, we would read
each other’s thoughts. It was a strange experience writing myself for someone else.
Our stories were endlessly amusing examples of our crushes, gossip, and dreams.
One day I woke up, however, and burned them because they no longer represented
the’me’ that I had become. Long, white sheets of paper became small scraps,
napkins, or any surface that would support words. Pens became markers, crayons,
paint.
My writing became a love affair with poetry. I believe happening on a poem by
Emily Bronte forever changed me as a person and as a writer. It found me in a time
when I needed it the most. Her words existed as if written from my own heart.
Quite accidentally, I found Bronte’s work one day while in the library when I
stumbled upon a poetry anthology and decided to take a deeper look. I opened the
book to Bronte’s (1850/1995) poem ‘‘Stanzas’’ (p. 255). Even today this poem still
claims the same impact on me as I reread each word, line, and thought. Poetry
moved me; it became me. As I found inspiration in the works of Stephen Crane,
T. S. Eliot, Walt Whitman, and Emily Bronte, with their help, I, too, tried my hand
at writing poetry:
Silence
Why must we ask so many questions
and give so few answers?
Why must we tell so many lies
to avoid the force of another?
Why must we take for granted
the things we cherish most?
Why must we remain silent
when there is really so much to say? (1997)
I art myself
My art is an extension
of myself
That is why I hold it
sacred
My body, mind, and spirit
are my temple
Therefore I worship it
I am very spiritual
I think I am god. (1997)
Blindness
My eyes are watching . . .What you do
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Where you go
How you feel
How you look
Your eyes are watching . . .
What I do
Where I go
How I feel
How I look
Our eyes are blind to what we see. (1997)
Reflecting Back . . .
Life is like a mirror
always reflecting back
moments in time
when you wish you could
Go back
Feel
Sense
Catch yourself
before you make the same
mistakes again. (2001)
While poetry continues to be an important part of my writing-self, I have discovered
my earlier love of writing extended into stories, research, and artistic projects.
Creating artist books became an outlet of expression that during my first few years of
college seemed unmatched in other written mediums. I found that words fit
everywhere*on found objects, wood, walls*hidden or obvious, transmogrifying
the landscape of art into something spectacular. I worded everything. I took great joy
in writing on most all of my art projects, mostly nonlegible, cursive ramblings that
only I understood. These writings were in the foreground; however, writing letters
always fluttered in the background of my life, like a busy bee pollinating a beautiful
flower:
Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page,
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart. (Crane, 1895/1966, p. 49)
Writing my life 187
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Whether I was writing letters to boyfriends, friends, family, or complaints to
businesses, thank-you notes, birthday cards, or papers for classes, writing moved
from the abstract world of fun to being both fun and functional. The power of words
and their ability to create change within my life was awe-inspiring. It was at this point
that I knew that I must surrender completely to writing. I pause. Each, comma, line,
word, letter breathed new life into me. I immediately transferred to Goddard College
so that I could write full-time. Loose scraps of paper and artist books segued into
computer printouts. Markers and paints transformed into a keyboard.
These processes ultimately became interwoven and interactive. My writing
informed my art and my art expressed and exhibited my writing. In 1999, selected
for a solo exhibition in St. Louis, Missouri, I showcased my previous and new
artwork and focused on writing as a community-building tool. Part of the exhibition
asked audience participants to write the names of women who inspired them on the
walls of the large, rectangular gallery hall. As the month of my exhibit passed by, the
walls became so full of words, names, people, the room reinventing itself into a living,
breathing discussion among familiar strangers.
We all wrote art, but during my exhibition, my art wrote me. I received much
local press and news articles, both angry and supportive, in response to my art. This
experience culminated in my final senior project*a written synthesis of my love of
writing and art-making processed through an exploration into the olfactory
dimension of creative practice.
My writing evolved from computer printouts and keyboards to glossy, typeset,
and copyedited pages. I wrote my love of plants, aromatherapy, and healing into
articles for trade magazines (massage, spa, and holistic healing). I wrote of specific
plants and practices, my words now growing in other gardens beyond my own.
I write myself because writing not only causes me pain but it also eases it. When I
first learned that I was suffering with psoriatic arthritis, I stopped writing. Why bother
trying, I thought? When in full bloom, the pain often made it impossible to make a fist,
rendering me unable to hold a pen or type in a healing way. I have learned how to write
through this pain, however, as an unwelcome partner in the writing process, but my
pain writes itself into every word typed, penned, and drawn. I have learned to embrace
this pain rather than to surrender to it, which has made all the difference.
Writing is a ritual for me. I write at home, outside, in restaurants, anywhere
I can find a surface and a tool. Much like the tides, my writing waxes and wanes.
Sometimes I am compelled to write in the mornings, and in other moments, I will
stay up all night writing or thinking about writing, and rarely is writing not part of my
daily life. Words flow onto surfaces and flow in and out of my consciousness.
Sometimes I am amazed that the words I have written come from me. It is almost as
if my words were written in a trance-like, ritualized state. I digress:
Skin
Skin encounters. It demands, it submits
Each cut, scar, line, and fold
Colliding and conforming
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Eating, touching, desired, & desiring
Commingling flesh
Penetrated, Penetrating
Outside in and inside out
Where does my skin end
and yours begin? (2008)
Nothingness
fragmented images merge and collide into abstract visuals,
audible distractions create immense sensation.
bodies transforming into malleable forms,
with contours reacting to subtle vibrations of waveform energy.
falling back and collapsing into separate ideas of unity,
rising above and within tides of feeling,
we escape into a sea of nothingness. (2008)
Poison
Lonely moments choke out distant memories
Silence rips apart my flesh
I surrender to my skin
How did I get (t)here? Where did this rash-of-being start?
Heat tingles, as numbness consumes
the newly extinguished fire of my self(lessness)
Shouldn’t I have known better?
Why was this danger so seductive?
What was it about this poison that forced me to become it? (2009)
I write myself in time, in space, and in place. I dance through temporal spaces
planting seeds (ideas, words), hoping to contribute to the garden of knowledge.
I write myself in the past, in the present, for the future. I write myself to belong to
something bigger than myself. I also rewrite myself with the belief that there is no
good writing, just good rewriting. For me, writing is a calling, a return to what was
always there. I feel writing in a way that reminds me of Eliot’s (1942/1970) words in
his poem ‘‘Little gidding’’:
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And at the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time . . . (p. 208)
Writing my life 189
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As I move through time, I write myself. I spin away. I grow. The branches that are my
arms continue to dig deeper into the soil of my life to create beautiful forests.
Acknowledgements
I dedicate this story to my mother, Lynette Blinne. I would also like to thank Lori
Roscoe and Arthur Bochner for their contributions to this essay.
References
Bronte, E. (1995). Stanzas. In C. W. Hatfield (Ed.), The complete poems of Emily Jane Bronte
(pp. 255�256). New York: Columbia University Press. (Original work published 1850)
Crane, S. (1966). XLVI. In J. Katz (Ed.), The poems of Stephen Crane (p. 49). New York: Cooper Square.
(Original work published 1895)
Eliot, T. S. (1970). Little gidding. In Collected poems, 1909�1962 (pp. 200�209). New York: Harcourt
Brace. (Original work published 1942)
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