What does the great grandson of a serial killer, a ten-year old gamer, and a hoarder of words have in common? I heard their stories and wrote them poems at the Crest Hill Library.

If you are at an event, just come up to my booth. Choose from a number of story prompts or we can just talk. I love getting to know who and what you care about and why. You have 3 minutes to tell me your story, and I have 3 minutes to craft a poem for you. Sometimes it goes a little longer.

I get to practice my craft (risk humiliation), you get a poem, and we get to know each other. Doesn't that sound great? (It's actually freaking magical.) Of course, you're welcome to talk about or buy my books.

Thank you for the tips, too.

Today I met a man who worked at Menard's and wants to build a future for himself.

I met a girl who draws fairies with pencil wings (because they are translucent) and a woman who is a master gardener who gripped a drift seed in her hand and believes in possibilities.

I found a friend I'd made last year who told me the poem I wrote about her sister is framed on a wall in her house. Her earliest memory is a field of wild flowers.

I celebrated an 88th birthday and a 2nd birthday and both moved me to tears.  I wrote poems for children, and startled the parents when I asked, "What words of advice do you want to give your child?" They shushed their children who said, "Oh, I know! You say I need to focus" or "Do your chores!"

Every parent says the same thing: be happy...stay true to you...be kind. 

And although the day was lovely, my favorite moment today involved a ten year-old kid.

He likes to draw. One time he drew a King Cobra, but he lost it somewhere. I wrote him a poem. He liked it. He told me his aunt was braiding hair at the event. He brought me her card since I couldn't leave my table to get my hair braided. And he tipped me a dollar.

He came back by later and said his mom wanted a poem. I asked him if she was going to swing by, but his mom wasn't at the event. We decided to work on a poem for her. Turns out his mom is nice, caring, and does nice things for him. I asked him what he would give her, you know, if anything was possible.

Since her favorite color is red, he wants to give her a big red house with wide windows and a big back yard with a homemade pond and a hammock. He wants to get her toe nails and fingernails painted--red, of course, only with glittery sparkles too, He wants her to have a shopping spree and go out for ice cream (butter pecan, he thinks) and drive a red Mustang. He told me she gets lonely when he's visiting dad, so he wants her not lonely. We planned a great day for her, and we turned her great day into a poem.

He came back with a fistful of dollar bills. I said, "Seriously?" He said, "It's a good poem!" and stuffed them in my tip jar.  When the event ended, he made sure to swing back by and gave me a hug. I'm the luckiest person on the planet, just in case you didn't already know.

I love that kid. He'd better come back to the 2020 Oswego Literary Festival. And next time he needs to bring his mom.  I hope her nails are red.

At my first 3-Minute Poetry event, I wrote a poem for a boy who wore an onyx ring. I remembered it vividly since he also loved studying the universe. The ring his father had given him served as a perfect metaphor for gripping the endless possibilities in the black sky.

Guess who turned up at this event! Yep. He still loves space, only now the mysteries are greater, deeper, complex.

We've made a pact to do this poem thing every year. I put the date on this one. I can't wait to hear all about what next year held for him.

When we were dating, my husband worked at a high end pen shop in Chicago. Since I was a writer, he asked if I had any interest in owning a pen myself.

Uh...no.

Nice pens demand too much from me. I find beautiful journals intimidating for the same reason. Pretty things mock us, don't they? "With this, you must produce only beautiful words."

Since I finished graduate school, I've gotten comfortable with my process, and I'm proud to announce that fancy journals and pens no longer intimidate me. (That's right, fancy pens. You heard me.) So this fancy pen represents more than a rite of passage. 

It's part of the magic-making. Isn't half of the battle believing the words will emerge?

This wand chose this wizard.

Let's make some magic.

Do something that scares you a little, they say. Get outside your comfort zone.

I met a man who read only Westerns whose father retired from ranching and never took him camping. I wrote a poem for a woman who grew up by The Hundred Acres Wood, a young penny finder, a couple who fell in love at first sight, and a woman with a secret I will never share.

At Chicago's Printers Row, I wrote poems for people I met on the street. In the moment. No prep. Three minutes. It might be genius. It might not. (If you know a writer, you know how terrifying this is.) The last time I wrote 18 poems in 4 hours. Today my companion and I wrote more than 40 poems.

Tell me a story. I'll write you a poem.