Anne Bradstreet's The Author to her Book

A few weeks ago in my American Literature class I read a poem by Anne Bradstreet, a very early American female poet, that hit home for me. Any writer or wannabe writer--or anyone who's ever handed in an essay to a scrutinizing first grade teacher--can probably identify with Bradstreet's feelings. Here's what she has to say in her poem "The Author to her Book":

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.

Sure, the language and the rhyme scheme is archaic, maybe a little dated, but it still seemed familiar to this twenty-first century college student. The image of a poem as a wayward child, wandering far from its mother (the poet), for better or worse, is exactly how I feel about the terrifying task of sharing my writing. You have that motherly affection for what you wrote, which is really pretty narcissistic, since you love it mostly because it came from you. Still, to expose what you've made and an expression of your own mind with the public is vulnerable. It's a tentative step towards reaching out and showing the wounded side of yourself to the world, isn't it?

I was always pretty bad about taking criticism. Any suggestion that something I do is less than perfect seems a personal affront to me--I'm working on it, but I think I'm still the same touchy, defensive little snot I've always been. That's why, if I could, I'd warn my work to avoid critics. There you go--poetry just helped me reveal something about myself. That's what makes it beautiful.

If you liked this poem, you might also enjoy a more contemporary piece on the same theme: go read Ink Scars and Memories and decide for yourself.