By Holly Day

It was a matter of being in the right place at the right time. When I was fifteen, for the first time in my life, I hit a scene dead-on and rode it all the way through to the end.

I'm talking about poetry. In the mid-80s, the L.A. and Orange County poetry scenes were so intense and vital that I can't believe that everyone under 30 who got caught up in that scene didn't grow up to be a writer. Shame on you, cool punks who stumbled in to Zator's in Hollywood, screamed out poems scribbled quickly on cocktail napkins to an inebriated audience, and then grew up to be bank managers and real estate agents. Shame on you.

In 1986, I had witnessed the death of the last OC real punk rock band, TSOL -- or at least had watched them die as a punk rock band, had been barred from a multitude of clubs that wouldn't believe I was 18 (and really, at 15, I looked 13, so I don't really feel any animosity towards them). I caught the very tail end of the cool part of the Huntington Beach hardcore scene the year before, then backed quickly away as the harmless silly skinhead gangs suddenly got big and scary. I still have half a dozen bad tattoos from that time to show my kids.

So when the California poetry scene started happening, I was determined that I was going to get in right at the start and see where it was going to go. The first place that I got to see poetry being read and taken seriously was at Safari Sam's Nightclub in Huntington Beach. I first started going there with my friend Sandy, who was friends with the club's owners, then my mom started going to read her own poetry. Every Wednesday night, I'd be at Sam's -- either with my mom or without -- thinking about the day that I'd work up the nerve to get on stage myself and read some of the stuff I'd scribbled on my notebook at the beach when I was supposed to be at school. I never did get up on the stage, but I loved listening to the other poets read.

When Sam's closed at the end of that summer, my mom and I stayed in touch with the other people from the club who were determined to not let the scene die. The first offshoot of Sam's Poetry Night was Gil Fuhrer's Coliterus, which met wherever they could, whenever they could. Cal State Fullerton and Orange Coast College both hosted these random poetry/music events, as did dozens of tiny art galleries, studios, and divey biker bars all over Orange and L.A. County.

It was like being part of a secret society. I'd go to high school during the day, pretty much a pariah in every social circle from the preppies to the punk rockers, then at night, I'd go hang out with these amazing musicians and artists and writers who all knew me by name and liked hanging out with me and had no idea what a screw-up I really was. I went from feeling like a squashy little caterpillar to a fantastic butterfly.

It wasn't long before I just stopped going to high school altogether. Much too shy to get up and read my poetry out loud myself, I had begun sending my poetry to magazines all over the country, and had met with some minor success. By the time I decided to drop out of high school -- a little before my 17th birthday-I had already been published in almost a hundred punk fanzines and literary magazines. Of course, I was too young and stupid back then to know that free copies of magazines would never put food on the table or pay my rent, but at the time, it really did seem like I was on my way to becoming a writer.

I think if I hadn’t gotten such an early jump on it all, I probably would have given up on writing a long time ago. I don’t know how many times I’ve watched the faces of my adult poetry students crack and tremble at the sight of their first rejection letter, and the second, and the third, and not think of myself at fifteen, skateboarding to the post office with my backpack full of carefully labeled envelopes and money in my pocket to buy another roll of stamps. My bedroom was literally wallpapered with rejection letters, including one from Iowa Woman who said my poetry was awful and suggested by name which ones I should burn. My life back then consisted of writing and submitting and rushing to check the mail for good or bad news, and I loved every minute of it. I am still that person, and follow that same routine, even now.

It’s much more rewarding for me to work with young writers, especially cocky, overconfident high school students. I love watching their faces as I describe getting piles of rejection letters in the mail, and how hard it is to make a living a freelance writer, because I can just tell from their smug little smiles that they’re thinking, “Oh, yeah? Maybe it was hard for you, but I’m a good writer!” I love seeing that beautiful, naïve, indomitable confidence in those kids, and invite all of them to knock old writers like me off our pedestals and put us out of work.

It reminds me of myself.

© 2007 - Holly Day