During the 2022 fest something changed. The reality of spontaneity had finally bored a hole through my brittle, stubborn shell-mind. August ended and I just…kept going. Typed out tiny poems – two, three lines – most nights before going to bed. Sitting in a parking lot waiting for the end of my kid’s school day/practice/music lesson, scribbling into a tiny, empty notebook that I’ve carried around for ages. I wasn’t conscious of what I was doing. I wasn’t Writing Poetry. I was just jotting down words that I haunted my right ear or appeared behind my lash line.
The document of poems is now about 15 pages long. The notebook is half full. On a whim, I sent a few into the world, and they’ll be published in the coming year. But my point here isn’t “Oh, look, here’s a formula so you can publish your poems.” That’s the anti-point; that’s the ego and the rational, practical mind. The point is: beautiful things happen when you and your internal editor take a break from one another. Your free, creative mind can do beautiful things if you let it, and the Postcard Fest is an amazing way to unfetter that creative mind, let it rise.
— Ina Roy-Faderman