I had a different post scheduled for today. I wanted to have a conversation about the importance of taking care of oneself, but what I wrote made me nauseous. I felt ill at ease when I revised and edited it; I felt ill at ease when I tentatively scheduled the post; I felt ill at ease when I scheduled it; and I felt ill at ease on Monday and Tuesday. Thus, I scrapped the post Tuesday evening. It’s gone to the rubbish bin, and there it shall remain until it becomes something worthy of being published.
writing
You Don’t Have to Say Anything
I wanted to publish these words yesterday, but they were difficult in coming. They remain difficult now. I’m not sure what point they serve, if any, except as a reminder that silence sometimes is the appropriate response.
I find myself without words when it comes to the Boston Marathon. I truly don’t know what to say. Any time I try to write something, the writing feels forced, fake. I refuse those words. I have seen them published in the past about other tragedies, and they will be written again. I want no part of that. The words have to mean something.
Why I Love Mornings
I am a morning person; thus, I love mornings. I specifically love early mornings. The time between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. is precious. Those hours are not yet filled with the yammering of my brain and all its thoughts of what I need to do haven’t been doing. My mind is quiet. It’s ready to work. It’s ready to write.
When the Words Don’t Come Easily
When the words don’t come easily, when I have to fight for every one of them, I take solace in Richard Hugo’s thoughts. He says the hard work put into one piece of writing makes for the sudden ease of a future – not subsequent but future – piece of writing. I keep writing in hopes of finding that “sudden ease,” however brief it may be. A brief moment of ease is like the first drink of water after running a race. Nothing tastes quite as good as that water. Nothing is quite as refreshing.
National Poetry Month 2013
This National Poetry Month, I’ve decided to focus on a few poets who have contributed to the way I write or to the way I think about writing. It should be an interesting exercise because it’s difficult to limit myself to a few poets. I start with one and find myself referencing another. I start with a single idea and end up with ten or more. The ideas proliferate, like rabbits or the never-ending, multi-colored scarf.
When the Words Come Easily
The days when the words come easily are gifts. They are the moments when the writer is free from whatever distracts her. They are the times when the words pour forth – not necessarily good or perfect words but words that can be shaped and turned into something worthwhile. They are words with potential. Such days are rare. They are to be received with gratitude and purpose. If such days are rare, the writer should take advantage of them. She shouldn’t rest in the feeling of clarity; she should act upon it. She should write and write and write until her hands can do no more.