On Writing Collaborations: Poetry Isn’t Solitaire

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Poetry isn’t solitaire. But it also can’t be turned into a metaphor for any other kind of card game, because you don’t play to win. 

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away called high school, I was stubbornly convinced that writing was and would always be an individual endeavor. At least for me. I preferred it that way. Sure, I would write silly stories with friends in which we would pass around a notebook, but that was purely for comedy, ridiculousness—my vulnerability, my emotions, any of my “serious” or revealing lines—they were for me, and there was no way I thought I could write them with someone else. The thought of sharing my “serious” poetry with others, for whatever reason, be it for feedback or to bounce ideas off of was terrifying. I had no problem with my teachers reading the assignments I turned in for English and creative writing classes. But for my peers—especially my peers who were also writers, to see my work—it felt like some sort of threat. 

I’m not exactly sure what it was. Maybe a toxic sense of competitiveness I’ve since gotten over. Maybe a deep-seeded insecurity that I’d be judged and scrutinized more easily by those with any sort of mind or interests akin to mine. I’m not really sure. Likely, it was a mix of both. 

But when I got over the fear, self-doubt, and habit of comparing myself to others, something magical happened. (And yeah, I just spat a cliché, a sentence that sounds like it belongs Photoshopped over an unrelated image of the Rocky Mountains or something, but bear with me.)

This past winter I collaborated with another creative writing major, and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made. We met up once in person to hash out what schedule we’d keep to and how we were going to structure our collaboration (we ended up deciding on a call and response system, which I’ll explain more about later) and being the creative types we are, we didn’t at all stick to the schedule. But what resulted was an email chain echo that gave us confidence both in each other and ourselves. 

I started off, sending the first poem, and she sent one back a few days later. Admittedly, we struggled a bit at first—she texted me telling me she liked my poem, but wasn’t sure how to respond to it. I was just as confused as her, and thought for a second, once again, maybe poetry just isn’t as good, maybe poetry ends up forced, when more than one person is involved in its creation. By the end, however, we were pros at figuring out how to generate poems in a call and response form.

It’s pretty simple, really. Find another poet, it doesn’t matter if you know them well or not, just that they are willing to collaborate with you. Then, when you receive a poem from them, read it. Then read it again. Then read it aloud or under your breath. Take the line, or sometimes just a word, that resounds loudest for you. Include another thought based on that line, or that same word, in your response poem. For example, I used the word “carousel” in one of my poems, so she wrote a poem, though completely different in imagery, with the word “carousel” in response. Her poem also included the word “lobotomy,” to which I responded with a poem on the subject of willful forgetting. 

Collaborative poetry, forget the games: It’s kind of like having a gym buddy. You hold each other accountable for putting in the effort you said you would. 

And you’ll be surprised how fast you’ll hit the ground running when someone else inspires you. 

Read more of Alyssa's stellar work on Floodmark.