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6:41 AM ~ poem
In this early morning, break-of-a-new day light
In this cooling, new-day air
I could live
forever.
(c) poem and photo credit – Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer – August 30, 2016
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6:41 AM ~ poem
In this early morning, break-of-a-new day light
In this cooling, new-day air
I could live
forever.
(c) poem and photo credit – Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer – August 30, 2016

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 “gabberflasted” (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
“Today, like every other day, we wake up empty/and frightened….” ~ Rumi
There are days when the world is too much with us – when the news reports are about the terrifying things we continue to do to each other, when an unexpected telephone call too early in the morning changes everything and there’s nothing you can do about it but pray (for a long time) and to show them you love them, when where you were once able to see beauty in that certain slant of light or find solace in the quietude of that sunset or the ocean; or, the enduring love of that person who gently tries to prod you back to your better self falls on your deaf heart. A long-loved friend dies – you were better than sisters to each other. The drowning of another friend’s 3 year old son strikes another shattering blow. Like a slug being hit by salt, you curl up, tight.
You know you’re in trouble; but, can’t find your way back.
Slowly, by constancy, grace, force of will and that invisible Love, a small chink finds its way in. Belly laughs return. Someone you’ve reached out to after your long silence interrupts your conversation, prays for you, and your heart lifts a little – amen.
No one said this life would be easy; and, sometimes it’s not. But, it’s worth it – every time.
Gratitude.
~ Jessan
“…Everything/has to do with loving and not loving/This night will pass./Then we have work to do.” ~ Rumi
Magic Words
Being raised as I was, there were three phrases or “Magic Words” that were consistently spoken and required – “Please”, “Thank you”, and “Excuse me”.
When I had children of my own, I taught them the same lessons I had been taught when I was growing up – both in our home and outside our home.
Over time, I’ve come to realize that what I came to believe was common courtesy is, often, not so common. Nevertheless, the lessons I was taught about the “Magic Words” have persisted.
To this day, I hear my Mother’s and Father’s voice whenever I speak or write those words; and, I continue to wonder why they’ve, often, become so uncommon in life and in work.
Thanks, Mom and Dad, for teaching me one of many important, simple lessons.
Your Loving and Devoted Daughter,
~ Jessan
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).
© 1990 Jessan Dunn (DeCredico) Otis
THE RISK OF REAL GROUND
Stepping into air the woman falls
momentarily catching hair and nails
as on a wing or cliff or webs
First this, then that
Falling is water washing flesh away
it changes everything
begin to learn, again
Earth gives up pieces of itself so slowly
breathing passes through ash or oak or bone
amber perfume fills a room
A hand touches and moves away
you meet yourself
passing by a shattered glass
Say you understand, say you say
stand up, open your mouth
what are you standing on.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
– for Todd Bartel, Joanna Barth, Miguel Calderon, Sean Coel, Jemima Farwell, Lael Jacobs,
Elizabeth Jackson Johnston, Blane Kieng, John McLaughlin, Anna Regnery, Charis SanAntonio,
and Jodi Schwartz
(c) 1986 Jessan Dunn (DeCredico) Otis
All We Are Are Our Stories
I’ve been told that the first human sound I ever heard was, most likely, laughter; as my mother looked over the drape, surrounded by a bevy of student nurses, and asked, “Over hand or feather stitch?” as Dr. Vorsick repaired her episiotomy.
This is where my story began. Since then, looking back, there’s no way I could have predicted nor anticipated the journey from then to now – just as well, I suspect.
All posts are my own, unless I invite someone to share their stories – with the exception, of course, of “Comments”. All credit where credit is due will be made.
There is only one primary and permanent guideline: play nice with the other children. This site/blog is open to all and any comments, opinions, and points of view. However, if what you write is inflammatory, bigoted, narrow-minded and/or hateful, I will delete it.
That rather unpleasant matter aside, I look forward to telling stories, sharing stories, listening to stories, and learning more as we all journey through this thing called Life.
Welcome!
What say you, please?
~ Jessan