My Correspondence with a Famous American Poet

 I don’t know what gave me the nerve to apply to Billy Collins’ poetry workshop in January 2014, part of the prestigious Key West Literary Seminar.   The “best writers of our time,” boasts the brochure, “ join readers from all over the world for four days of readings, conversation, lectures, panel discussions, and parties that add up to one of today’s smartest and high-spirited literary gatherings.”
 
    Then there was Key West, a hallowed ground for famous writers:  Ernest Hemingway, Elizabeth Bishop,  Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote–and Billy Collins, former poet laureate referred to as “America’s favorite poet” by Wikipedia and others.
 
     I suffered from imposter syndrome from the moment I received my letter of acceptance.   At a cocktail party on the first evening of the workshop, I asked Miles, the co-ordinator, if there had been a lot of applicants to choose from.  Did Billy Collins himself make the selections?  He said yes to both.  I didn’t really believe him.
 
     The first morning, a dozen of us arranged ourselves around a large rectangular table in a lovely room, cool white walls lined with photographs of famous writers.  At the head of the table, affable Billy Collins invited us to introduce ourselves.  Because I sat farthest from Billy and closest to the door,  I had time to think.  I sure as hell wasn’t going to go with “never published anywhere important, slightly overweight, retired community college English instructor.”
 
    I played the Tuscarora card.  It went something like this:  “I’m a Nevadan.  Born and raised in the basin and range country of northeastern Nevada. It’s not ‘Ne-vah-duh,’ by the way.    At present I spend most of the time in my fixer-upper in Tuscarora, pretty much a ghost town fifty-two miles north of Elko.  There are eleven full time residents–retired miners, old misfits, a few artists who run a pottery school.   Everyone drinks at night.  Not together, though.  There's a post office that serves both the locals and the ranching community of Independence Valley.  Julie, our postmistress, knows everybody.  Heck, (I’m not sure I said ‘Heck’), if you sent me a postcard just with my name and the zip code, I would get it.”
 
    It was an inspiring workshop.  I fit in well enough.  Billy Collins even had something good to say about my poem, “My Life Is Scattered on the Lawn.”  That last morning we said our goodbyes to one another and queued around our mentor. When it was my turn, I thanked him for a great learning experience. Then I handed him a slip of paper with my name and the Tuscarora zip code.  He hesitated.  Remembering my introduction,  he said, “You mean to tell me if I sent you a postcard just with your name on it and that zip code, you’d get it?’  I nodded in the affirmative and beat it out of there thinking, “That was kind of a dumb shit thing to do.”
 
     Because I don’t get  much mail in Tuscarora, I only pick it up once a week.  There was a memorable day that June when I sorted through a couple of flyers, a phone bill, and found this postcard.  When I gave it a closer look, I laughed out loud.   See the BC in the right hand corner?  That’s Billy Collins.
 
     The Tuscarora post office has a great selection of stamps. The newest release that summer was the Johnny Cash Forever stamp, which I attached to a postcard with my one-word answer.  “Yep.”  
 
    There you have it.  My correspondence with a famous American poet:  “Well…” and “Yep.”