In 1990 I had the pleasure of reading with Colette Inez in a library in Tarrytown, NY. We bonded immediately—we were both wearing all black. We both had (dyed) red hair. We were both Geminis with June birthdays. We were both of French heritage. Colette had a French mother and French-American father who was really a Father (a priest!) which deserves its own essay, of course, and of which she wrote brilliant poems and a heart wrenching memoir The Secret of M. Dulong.
Colette Inez (1931-2018) was like a poetry fairy godmother to me. I’d finished grad school by the time we met. My poetry professors, quite rightly, were busy helping their new students. Colette’s advice was wacky and fun. She said it was important to wear black—or solid colors—for readings so that the audience would be focused on the poet’s face rather than any patterned blouse or dress. She also advised big earrings and bright lipstick as other ways to draw attention to the poet’s head and mouth. Colette had an elegant, easy-going style, quick to smile and laugh. But the best advice of all she bestowed (her metaphorical wand touching the top of my head) was this—always pay yourself first. I was an adjunct those days, teaching six classes a semester at three different universities, my arduous commute taking me from Manhattan to Long Island and Queens. I didn’t at first understand what she meant by “pay.”
Colette asked when I did my best writing and I said, Whenever I can. Whenever I am done grading and preparing my next classes. She explained that wouldn’t sustain me over the long haul and repeated her question. I told her I wrote best in the morning, but often, when I woke up, anxiety took over in terms of all I had to do for that particular day. She explained that I had to first feed myself with poetry—that’s what she meant by pay yourself first—allow myself an hour of writing per day first thing in the morning if I could. If nothing came to the page, I was allowed to fill that time with reading poetry. She instructed me to stroll right by my piles of ungraded papers and unpaid bills, ignore them completely. Her voice was so confident that I did what she said, setting a timer and writing an hour each morning. Sometimes I wrote nothing much or I guess I don’t have anything to say today, but every few days I had a breakthrough.
Colette and I kept in touch through letters for the remainder of her life. We sent each other poems and postcards. For more than thirty years I have heeded her counsel. It has made me, certainly, a better and more disciplined writer. It has also, I believe, made me a better professor. No longer do I feel resentful of grading. I am lucky—I teach poetry now rather than comp classes and grading is not so much grading as engaging with student poems.
I have adapted Colette’s advice as technology marched on. Now, in addition to ignoring bills and correspondence, I also try to avoid email for my first hour of the day and spend that time writing and reading. I keep the volume of my cellphone off until I am ready to deal with any calls or texts. And when I do finally check my email, I open the Poem-a-Day email before any work emails. And only after all that do I check the news. It’s a small practice but one that has kept me sane and writing poetry. When Colette and I met, the words “selfcare” or “me time” weren’t part of the vernacular yet, and I hesitate to use them now. But there was something profound about Colette’s writing advice—which had nothing to do with craft but everything to do with process—that has been invaluable to me.
More than once I have passed on this same advice to younger poets who now must struggle with all the issues I did as a young person as well as keeping up with social media. I am not on any platforms myself, yet I know how important this way of communicating is to many. Trying to channel Colette, I suggest poets keep that hour to themselves, whenever they write best. One former student recently told me it was not until we spoke about this that she even realized she could turn off her notifications. I’d tapped my metaphorical wand on her head, and she passed on Colette’s advice via me through her own wand, to her poet friends on Facebook. Then she put her phone in a drawer and began to write in her notebook.
Denise Duhamel’s most recent books of poetry are Second Story (Pittsburgh, 2021) and Scald (2017). Blowout (2013) was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. She teaches at Florida International University in Miami.