Dedicated to my Friends, Sandybeach Writers
I used to be embarrassed
of my own words
They poured out of me
and I felt uncomfortable
I kept hearing:
“Your writing is childish bliberish”
“Others are better than you”
“You are average”
Or my father’s,
“Let her write poems,
better than going with boys”
I met friends
they told me:
“Your words are beautiful”
“You are an artist”
I didn’t believe them
Dangled with mine
And taught me acceptance of the beauty of both
11 May 2016
To Write or Not to Write
That is the Question.
Shakespearean Man has asked that
To Pour Love and Hate on Pages
Or never mention
That Thing that Bleeds inside
While it atones
Who says you’ve only one chance
To state your business
Who’ll estimate your tryings till the end
To cut it open all
To dripping words
That heart to mend
I wrote a poem in five minutes. In the car. While waiting to pick up my daughter from school. Then, at home, I entered ten poems into a poetry competition. The judges chose the five minute one. I was surprised. I didn’t consider it that good. I thought the others, that were worked on for weeks, edited and polished, were much better choices.
This begs a question. Should I have not worked so hard on the poems that were rejected? Should I have waited for that perfect poem to come to my mind and illuminate me with its brilliance?
Yet, it is not as simple as that.
That perfect poem was brewing in my head for years before it was ready to come to the surface; a baby growing in the womb for months and shooting out fast when its time has come.
Many creative thoughts come to me when I am driving. Hands on the wheel, eyes focused on the road, my mind relaxed and the thoughts swim freely in my head. So what to do to keep them? These thoughts are so fragile, like fragments of a bigger picture. By the time I arrive at my destination they are gone.
I try to keep a pen and a paper always at hand. A pocket notebook is the best because of its small size and adequate thickness. But I often scribble on tissue boxes, newspapers and shopping receipts. I stop at the curb of the road and jot down a line. I scrawl while waiting at the rail crossing or traffic lights. I record my thoughts on to some sort of audio device. I also try to train my memory to remember a delicate thought until I can write it down.
And if all fails and the lines of my future masterpiece abandon me, I comfort myself with the thought that if they are important, they will come back.
This is a blog about writing. Plenty has been said about this matter by others. Still, I have something more to say. Maybe the same. Maybe different. I can’t keep the words to myself, guarding them like treasures. I want to share my thoughts and my passion. You have your own passion, I am sure. Perhaps, we can blend them together, changing the taste and the spice.