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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

186 K. C. Blinne

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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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