Why the book I wrote a year ago is haunting me

I've never been much of a poet.

I don't prefer to have my words rhyme, or for any reason, be coerced into a specific pentameter to sound pleasing to the ears.

Until last summer, when I poured over a book of poems in the short span of a week.

I had entered a contest on a whim while sitting at my desk at work, on a particularly gruelling day. The pop-up ad on Facebook seemed like a bright glowing opportunity – even if it could potentially be a scam.

I decided to fork over fifty dollars in hopes that this challenge would be able to spark some form of emotion back into my writing, having endured one of the worst periods of my life following my graduation from university.

Don't get me wrong, its not like I despise poetry, I find it to be beautiful. I just never really considered that my writing could be delicate or fluid in the way I at first imagined poetry to be, the lyrical limericks and saccharine sonnets left me in a tizzy.

I never fathomed being able to create something compelling – which is a continuous crutch in my literary ventures and a not-so-kind one.

Despite all of the hardships I was facing, and quite frankly, where I was losing any semblance of who I was, I decided to take a plunge in a genre I had not even left the shallow end up until then.

Only, I didn't immediately get started.

The goal of the challenge was to write one poem a day. To force yourself to write, no matter if you had a clue as to what to write about.

Even though it was just one poem a day for one month, I found myself neglecting the challenge. It settled at the bottom of the pool of worries, threatening to drown me.

As the month drew to a close, and my perfectionism reflecting that of someone who could not face failure, I almost considered forgoing the entire challenge.

If I couldn't produce any poems leading up until the final week of the open period, then how could I cram words into a viable piece of literature anyhow?

I'm not sure what gave me the final push. It's too long ago to remember, it must've been a fleeting moment.

Perhaps it was because I had already missed the initial deadline and failed the challenge, that I somehow thought worthy enough to redeem myself by at least finishing something.

Up until this point, I had maybe half of the required poems in order to get my work published. So, I pulled an all-nighter to reach the quota in time to submit just a handful of hours before the final deadline.

This meant that even though I failed the challenge, my book would still be published. I even put some effort into making a title I was proud of and a cover that I thought would stand out.

By the end of this venture, I had 19 poems completed.

Most of them were negative, drawing on emotions like envy or despair. This version of myself wrote to grieve the person I was attempting to bury.

The other poems, the ones that offered relief and a glimpse into a hopeful future, seemed to kiss this ugly version of myself before a final goodbye.

With one simple act of self-love, I felt that this book of poems had become an ode to everything I had endured, which allowed me to let go.

-

Following the initial charades of compiling everything, I heard nothing from the publishers for months. I had been notified about final copies and the covers being organized, but in terms of a release date, that was unknown.

My disappointment soon subsided and I chalked up the entire experience to be odd but hey, I'd been ghosted by publications before. It happens.

Not too long after I danced with the publishing company about a silly little book of poems, my life was taking a drastic direction – all for the better.

Now, fast forward 7 months, and I'm sat in the window of one of my favourite cafés writing this post with a tea in my hand.

I got the notice that the book had been published on major platforms like Amazon and Barnes and Noble a few nights ago. It was now possible to have a tangible physical copy of my work.

It seemed surreal as I read the notification email, all of the links provided taking me to the sites where 'brain bleeds silver linings' stared back at me through a screen, where my name was printed in uppercase letters across the bottom of the cover.

I will admit, I felt shocked and elated when I first processed the news. I was eager to share the information with my family and friends.

This excitement, however, vanished almost instantly.

A year had passed. A year since I made a cover on a software I was not yet an expert at, and now it seemed almost childish to look at.

A year since I wrote the Acknowledgments page and a little About Me blurb for the back. God – why did I use THAT picture of myself?

It all came crashing down when I went back to read some of the poems that had sat untouched in the PDF of the final draft on my computer.

I suddenly felt the insecurity creep back in, the familiar feeling of incompetence. Out of the poems that I wrote, I only favoured maybe a few. The rest, felt foreign on my tongue.

I found myself release a few tears over the matter as well.

To me, the poem book was a failure. It was simply not good enough.

Over the past couple of days, I've been working to rewrite this narrative I've unfurled. Hence why I'm writing this post. I needed an opportunity to put the anxiety and disappointment to rest.

My grandmother, who has written her fair share of poetry, said that even though time has passed, she considers my poems to be great.

"You should be proud of them," she said. "It was a hard time in your life and that book is what helped you express that."

My grandmother also reminded me that writing this little book of poems was supposed to be a part of my path – meant to be. Regardless of my self-doubt.

After sitting with the looming shadow of this poem book hanging over me, much like a poltergeist, I'm ready to move forward.

In the end, I produced something that allowed me to feverishly and autentically express all of my raw emotions during a painful period of time.

I also acknowledge the immense relief and sense of accomplishment I felt after submitting the poems. I gained experience and learned a few lessons. About the publishing industry and more importantly, myself.

The book of poems may represent a negative part of my past, and even though it could be compared to a failure in my life, I've grown from this past, just as much as my writing has.

Failure is okay.

Fail all the way to success.

Now, as I am properly ready to bury this book (with fond appreciation), I can validate all the negative connotations I have with it, as well as cherishing its existence nonetheless.

It exists because I exist. That's valuable.

So, here lies 'brain bleeds silver linings'.

Flawed but special.

Thank you for reading.

- b.d

If you are curious about 'brain bleeds silver linings', you can find it in the links below.

E-book: https://www.store.bookleafpub.com/product-page/brain-bleeds-silver-linings

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/brain-bleeds-silver-linings-bree-duwyn/1143668853?ean=9789357614214

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/brain-bleeds-silver-linings-Duwyn/dp/9357614214/ref=sr_1_5?crid=ECNXHJ5VMTLG&keywords=bree+duwyn&qid=1689155331&sprefix=bree+duwyn%2Caps%2C299&sr=8-5