Poets are often taught to “write what they know.” That dictum is supposed to bring comfort and solace, to suggest that poets can draw upon their own existence and that will be enough.

I disagree. Write what you don’t know.

Write what you wish you knew, what you wish you could read, the books that you encounter while dreaming, the manuscript which lies just on the edge of your fingertips.

Imagine the younger you, the you that yearned for the book that was just out of reach, the book that you wished was on the shelf—the book that you imagined would fulfill your fantasies, that would make you feel seen and heard, the book that would be just so cool to read. Write that. Write the book that you wish someone had handed to your teenage self. Be able to dream that you can hand that book to your teenage self and say “you’ll be ok.”

I believe that we don’t write for today; we write for tomorrow. A book is not a head of lettuce.[1] It doesn’t go bad. It stays on that shelf calling to a reader that we can’t even fathom. Imagine writing in terms of apprenticeship: learning takes place over several lifetimes of engaging with a subject; it is passed down intergenerationally from writer to writer. Compose with the next generation in mind: pose questions, offer potential solutions, suggest pathways for the reader-poets who come next.

Writing is not individualism; it’s the dream of community.

Continuously be mentored, and mentor in kind.

Celebrate the authors of the generations before you that have inspired and celebrate the authors of generations after you that are about to inspire.

There is no good, better, best in poetry.

[1] Unlike some contemporary politicians.