Courage Called For

So many things can stop me from writing–a wonky keyboard, a challenging crossword puzzle, a sleepless night. But these are excuses. What too often stops me is inertia. And that comes from fear, not screams-in-the-dark fear, not attack by rhinos, not that fear. My fear is not getting it right. But getting it right is not why I write every morning. No one sees that kind of writing, so what’s to worry about? I long ago accepted the need to practice, just as musicians, dancers, athletes do. So I’m faithful to my practice in morning pages.

But those of you who check in here know that I’ve been slacking about blogging. That’s because I want to do it well or not at all. Well, well is a relative term. I have yet to have people throw stones at me because my blog is not perfect, not even excellent. So here I am, admitting my need for approval to myself and to the whole world, or at least the tiny part of it that reads my blog.

Commitment to writing and sending it out into the world is a renewal. I will do better, or at least more often. And to help me do that, my Friday writing partner, Anita, and I will talk every Friday morning even after she moves away from Colorado (which will happen soon). What’s more, we will set goals for the week and hold each other accountable. And if we don’t meet the goal, explain, please, why not. Dire circumstances may be legit, but maybe not.

If you don’t have a pal like Anita, find one. Go to your local coffee shop and strike up a conversation. Book stores, libraries, open mics–all rich in potential. And keep the pen moving or BICHOK (Butt in chair, hands on keys.)

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Commited?

For the past hour I have committed myself to solitaire instead of posting this blog. Why? Because my dog is sick, because the news of yet more shootings sickens me, because . . . because . . . because. Because the world is too much with me today, not getting and spending as Wordsworth said, but because there is no time out for peace. Life has historically been a violent enterprise. Plagues, war, abuse–a hellish place this world. But it’s the only one we’ve got. We will not colonize a new planet, although we seem bent on destroying this one.

How to shake this ennui, despair, meanness? Yes, I feel mean. I want politics to go jump off a cliff–oh, wait, that’s already happened. I want to regain my usual calm and get on with my day. The weather is mild right now. I have a poetry group on the agenda. The dog is not going to die today. And I am committed to my life as a writer, a truth teller, a scribe. Today the truth is that I’m scared. Scared for our country. The violence, racism and hate have percolated into my cells and I want to play turtle, draw back into mindless digital games until the despair blows over. But here’s the thing: my distress won’t pass unless I face it and commit to doing what I can to be a better citizen. I have to vote. I have to work at equality among the people I know and respect. I have to give the dog his medicine and pay the vet bills. I have to go take a shower and be glad for that simple opportunity. Commitment starts now, again, with gratitude for hot water on demand, for eggs in the frying pan, and for the safety of home.

 

The Distraction Factor

This summer I spent a week in the company of Marge Piercy and twelve other talented and dedicated poets. At the end of our week Marge asked us to commit openly, in writing, to our writing, to keep it first on our to-do list. My promise to myself has two parts: get back to submitting work regularly and reduce outside commitments. This week I have done a lousy job of keeping that promise. Too many outside events have drawn me away from my desk.

And what have I done? Chastised and berated myself for my slothfulness and wailed like a three year old about what a failure I am as a writer. Well, wake up, child. This past week I’ve attended a day-long poetry festival, taken part in a public reading to celebrate National Translation Month, volunteered as  writing coach at our local mental health service, taught two classes on creative writing, attended a talk on cliche at a local library and today I’m off to the first seasonal meeting of CIPA (Colorado Independent Publishers’ Assoc.) Oh, and spent a valuable hour yesterday with one of my writing partners. This, my dear self, is not sloth.

It’s distraction from the individual aspects of writing. So right here in front of everyone, I forgive myself for losing focus, dropping the reins, wallowing in remorse, all those things that would, if I let them, keep me mired in regret. I’ve just put three little stickies on the edge of my monitor to remind me that here, at the desk is my next destination.

Read for Equality