Poem for Those Who Wish to Write

Write. Write feelings,

write stories,

write images of

fantasy and

isolation,

write something hard

and substantial,

write dreams on

thick paper,

frantically,

write willingly or

forcibly to rush yourself

into the world.

I wrote this poem a few years back when I was having a block. I was taking a creative writing class and was required to write a poem. I had nothing. I had grown accustomed to writing with a certain level of angst. It was a difficult time in my life. I had also begun to grow weary of my weariness. I didn’t want to write about conflict; I wanted to be inspired. So I thought about the things I might write about and wrote this poem as my own inspiration to push through. I quite like it. I hope you do too.

I dug out some of my old writing a couple of days ago and as you would imagine, some of it made me cringe. Ha! Haven’t we all gone through the pour my despair onto the page and let him have it phase of writing? I had a long period of that. At least what I consider long. The thing is, it made me more depressed. Every time I looked through my work I saw sadness. And that sadness was a reminder that I had not moved forward to a better place. So I stopped writing altogether. That in itself was a shame because writing has always been a friend. The paper listens, and hell yeah I needed that.

When I started this blog a few years ago, it was my getting back to my love of writing. It was humorous and self-deprecating and allowed me to have fun and laugh. I was serious in craft, not in content. I wanted to connect with other women who also had the hilarious struggle that I had. And it was great. Then a funny thing happened. It wasn’t actually funny. I felt like I had run out, at least temporarily, of material to share. And so I stopped writing again. I never learn. It hasn’t been until recently that I realized that I was creating my own prison. Telling myself that I should only write about this one theme because that’s what this blog is about. What the hell?

Here I had the freedom to be myself; no one was stopping me, and I was stopping myself. Dumb. I think it’s a constant struggle. When deciding whether to post this poem I thought, Do they come to me for poetry? Well, at the end of the day, I created this thing for my joy, and all of you dear readers have been very supportive. You make me want to do more for myself and you as well.

They like me! They really like me!

And so, occasionally, I’ll post some of the other things I’ve written- the babies I’ve kept locked away in the attic Victorian-era style. They want to come out and breathe. Maybe you look at the prolific or super focused blogs of others and think that the best decision is to confine yourself, restrict yourself. Or maybe you go through phases where the writing inspiration just doesn’t want to come. You don’t post and then you feel that loser status creeping up in those grey clouds to loom over you.

But the thing is to write. The thing is to be open. The thing is to look around. The thing is to read. Take notes. Scribble ideas. Learn new words. Be unfettered. You don’t have to publish every embarrassing child you produce. Please don’t! The internet is full of them. Some of that writing I pulled up the other day will never actually see the light of day. That’s alright though. It was exercising my mind; keeping it well-oiled; slowing the aging process; keeping me limber. Writing will always do that. Even the bad stuff. Besides, the bad stuff just makes the good shine that much brighter. In literature we call that a foil.

P.S. If you’ve got some free time and would like to meander through some of my past writing, I’ll give you an air hug. Here are some of my favs.

The Ponytail Addict.

Spoons and Spaghetti.

Four Cheeks Are Better Than Two.

Would Some Lipgloss Have Killed You?

Cracked Feet/Fairly Classy Girl.