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I am a writer

Let’s begin by understanding one thing – I wasn’t always a writer. After all, once I accomplished the required rudiments of beginning to become a human being – i.e. sitting up, eating human food, beginning to learn language, walking and all – I was just a little girl, growing up.

Somewhere along the way, however, I learned that words have meaning – often, deep meanings. That speaking the right word can either encourage or profoundly discourage myself and others; and, unfortunately, that words can be used as weapons.

Some time later I, also, learned to write words. Sometimes they were “funny words”, like “sword” (that I learned how to spell by emphasizing the “sw” sound and, then, adding the remaining “…ord”). I have a long and growing list of “funny words”. Another one might be “ghabberflasted” (intentionally flipped ’round for memorability, emphasis, and humor).

Eventually, I began to, somewhat, “eat” words – rolling them over in my mouth for pronunciation, “digesting” the deeper meanings, learning the human history of words. I think, at that point, I was hooked; but, didn’t consciously realize it yet. I was on the path to becoming a writer; whether a public writer or a private writer didn’t matter.

Subsequently, the unconscious became conscious as I wrote more. I thought, as a returned undergraduate, I would major in English and, then, earn a J.D. in law to, eventually, specialize in international law, with sitting on the World Court as my goal.

Halfway through my undergraduate degree (I went back as a sophomore), what can only be called a phenomenological occurrence happened. My World Court goal took a one-week hiatus. I talked with two writers and two lawyers that I knew and respected. At the end of one week, I decided to go into writing not law; and, didn’t know it was poetry until I wrote more.

The rest of this story is my continuing history as a writer – earning my graduate degree, a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) from Brown University (Providence, Rhode Island) with the concentration in poetry. Sending out submissions, receiving acceptances, being published in various literary journals; and, eventually, teaching at the college level for eight (8) years. From time to time I continue to be invited to be a Guest Lecturer and Visiting Artist. These days I’m, also, invited to be a presenter based on my adventures as a woman-owned entrepreneur.

When my teaching gigs ended, I began to develop my skills, expertise, and acumen as a commercial, independent, strategic freelance writer and editor. I had come to understand that the world wide web, hence the internet, is founded on and completely driven by words. That was in May, 1996. I became a bootstrapped, solopreneur founding Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer.

At this time, poetry continues to be the foundation and inspriation I have as a writer. Thankfully, poetry continues to flow. Clients continue to reach out to me when they feel that my experience, expertise, and skills best match their well-funded projects.

Finally, the following quote by Mark Twain are the words upon which my logo was created:

“The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”

…and, that answers the question (more or less) how and why I became a writer.

Enjoy this day you make/are given.

Dance On…

~ Jessan

Meeting Alan – A Veterans Day Memory – 2015 – essay

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Stars and Stripes

How Alan and I met is a short, surreal film. Walter Reed Hospital, January, 1970. Walking through miles of connecting corridors to find his ward. Once there, (in the older part of this hospital), two long rows of beds, his the last on the right; and, he was asleep. I waited in the solarium adjacent to that ward, just around the corner from his bed. Another injured vet rolled his wheelchair ’round the corner. He had no legs, missing just above both knees. He had a soft, Southern drawl. We talked, on and off, for almost an hour. Every once in awhile he’d wheel back, check and say, “No Ma’am, he’s still sleeping.” He and I were about the same age.

I was visiting, unannounced and completely unknown to Alan, delivering several copies of the Brown Alumni Magazine, in which was a beautifully written article by the Editor, Robert A. Reichley, about Alan and a fellow alum, both of whom had served in Vietnam, had been wounded, and wound up next to each other in that ward in Walter Reed. The other alum had since been discharged. Alan’s people were far away; and, he was alone. I also brought the review copy of a first novel, My Main Mother, written by another fellow alum, Barry Beckham. At that time, I worked for that magazine; and, my former spouse (a visual artist) was having a show in DC.

Just the walk through the corridors continues to be singularly memorable. Too many wounded. Not enough beds. Broken men, bandages, various body parts missing, unexpected sounds, unusual smells. As a younger woman, I made eye contact, said “Thank you.” and kept asking for further directions to get to that ward.

After he finally woke up, Alan and I talked for over three hours. We have sustained our friendship since. Operations. Healing. Law school. First marriage. More unexpected injuries from a lawnmower and a flying rock. Children. Divorce. Second marriage. Children marrying. Grandchildren.

Alan and I talked several days ago. We recalled (again) the circumstances of our first meeting and all that’s happened to each of us since. I recalled that piece I told him I would write once I got just the right words to describe the quality of light at the time he was hit. I mentioned it was finally finished. He didn’t even ask to see it. He knows he will.

There is no pain in these memories. There is nothing but love, honor, and respect.

This, also, goes out to my mother, Helen, and my father, Mahlon; both of whom served in World War II. Dad was awarded the Purple Heart. I have both their flags. Until we meet again…

The Cambridge Poem

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T H E C A M B R I D G E P O E M ~ #poetry

Commencement Address – Class of 1990 – The Cambridge School, Weston, MA

Give your regards when you go to the reunion and at the dinner,

say that you were thinking about them They’ll, eventually, recall

your name; you went to the movies with that one, felt the weight

of their life when they sat next to you – they never said a word

All of you are rising friends: one used to play the piano, one once

wrote a play, one even seemed awakened enough to photograph the

fields as the unencumbered with tutored minds and unrehearsed passions

Meet them at the door, they’ve brought the souvenirs of time; a seashell

from the Pacific, the nose of a marble saint, and from the field

a spent casing divulged from the flower bed

Face a rising world bearing its gifts in its hands, kiss your incidental

dreams – rise, move away, take others

Give your regards to the well-protected; you knew them, you went

to school together There’s something to bury when you begin

to move away When you are ready and rich in your wish for the

world, you have a new race to start

From the heart of this darkened quadrangle, I hear the library

hum, an immense chorus of writers murmur inside their books along

the unlit, alphabetical shelves; each one stitched into their

own private coat, (you will have to write your own) together forming

a continuous, enormous breath of language

I picture a figure in the act of reading, shoes on the desk, head tilted

into the wind, a person in two worlds, holding the nape of their neck

as another’s life saturates the page; or, in the middle of a thesis,

moving from paragraph to verse, touring endless rooms (you will have to write your own)

I hear the voice of my mother and father reading and inside their

voices lay other, distant sounds

I see us reading ourselves away from ourselves, straining in circles of

light to find more light until the line of words becomes a trail

that we follow across a page and you will have to listen hard to

hear the voices going away (and, you will have to write your own).

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