This last weekend I went to a local writing conference with my brother. The community college we both attended hosts an annual writer’s conference and last month, they mailed out cards to promote it. My brother saw the card I was sent and asked me if I wanted to go. It had been years since I’d last attended and the idea of seeing my former professors again while also dipping my toes back into the river of the Portland, Oregon literary community sounded good to me.
The conference was Saturday. It began with a keynote address by two poets, Matthew Dickman and David Biespel, both of whom were outright hilarious. My brother and I both took copious notes from their keynote, which I will discuss in more detail in a moment, and have had multiple conversations about specific things they discussed since then. After that, there was a publishing panel with a few different people. After that was lunch and then we started the workshops.
There’s so much I could say about this conference, but I want to keep this succinct. 2026 has been a harrowing year for me already. So many good things have happened, but there have been dark moments as well. I finished my third master’s but also went through a really difficult couple of months in my romantic relationship. My partner and I are doing much better now (we’re better than we’ve ever been), but also my father’s health is declining again. My own health hasn’t been the greatest, although I have health insurance again so I can at least go to the doctor. It’s a mixed bag of good and bad and trauma and healing all taking place simultaneously. Writing through it has been difficult because sometimes the reality is too heavy to hold all at once.
The writing conference offered space for me to disconnect from a lot of these things and just exist in a space of creation. The keynote with Dickman and Biespel was much needed and helped me focus back on the thing I’m most passionate about: poetry. The workshops allowed me to create without pressure or stress or judgment. And through all of it, I got to enjoy the experience with my brother.
One thing that stood out from the keynote was the concept of the writer’s voice; in basically every writing class I’ve ever been in, the instructor has said something to the effect of, “You need to find your unique voice.” I know I heard this hundreds of times in my M.F.A. program, and it’s something that I fight to do in every poem, every story, every novel. David Biespel, however, gave a new perspective. He said (I’m paraphrasing, of course) that he thought the idea of a poet finding their unique voice was stupid; it was something poets made up so they could get jobs as teachers.
He explained, and Dickman elaborated, that our voice is not a fixed thing. It changes, it evolves, it grows over time and practice. Focusing on finding out unique voice is pointless because it’s not something we just “find” and then always have possession of. Instead, they both suggested looking for our unique vision. That will stretch across every poem, every project, every book.
I thought this was a fascinating perspective. Not only does this go against something I’ve heard my entire writing life, but it resonated deeply. Because every time I’ve heard an author say, “Find your unique voice,” what they’ve really meant was, “Don’t use cliche writing.” Which, sure, essentially means “Find your voice.” But I think it’s better to focus on the specifics: what’s cliche in the poem? Is it the imagery? The word choice? These things can be tied to the poet’s voice, but they don’t necessarily define a poet’s voice.
Plus, as Dickman said, spending time looking for your unique voice is pointless and will cause you to waste time on something that isn’t really there. Or, at least, not in the way we usually think. Finding our vision, though, allows us to evolve along with our writing; it makes our writing part of that process instead of making it a product of it. In other words, searching for our unique voice means making our writing a product of the journey. Searching for our unique vision makes the writing itself the focus.
I attended Dickman’s poetry workshop, and so did my brother. We wrote sequential poems. We were given 26 prompts and told to write sections as long or as short as we wanted in response to each prompt. And while mine wasn’t great, I really enjoyed the exercise. My goal for the rest of this month is to write sequential poems and see what I come up with. Taking daily prompts and writing poems and then stitching them together sounds like a really fun exercise that could result in something pretty outstanding.
I also attended the workshop lead by Ali Shaw about writing the villain in memoir. I’m not currently working on a memoir, but I think it’s always helpful to learn about something new, something that maybe isn’t directly connected to what I’m working on right now but could be connected to something I work on in the future. And while I don’t really see myself as having many villains in my life (certainly there have been some, but for most of them, I think the word villain is giving them far too much credit), I think the art of writing about the people who have hurt and betrayed us can be extremely difficult. The workshop was really interesting. It reminded me that I also like reading nonfiction and to get myself back into it.
As difficult as 2026 has been, I feel strongly that this is going to be a pivotal year for me. I’m hopeful and excited and I want to be present. Everything is uncertain, and that’s scary. Some truly life changing things could happen, both good and bad, and that’s also scary. But even in the scary and the uncertain, there is a lot of love and life and art and beauty. Celebrating these things, allowing them to take up space alongside the heartbreak and the loss and the disappointment, is what allows poetry to thrive. And in this way, life itself becomes a sequential poem.
