Full steam ahead

Full steam ahead

you mustn't look back

no glancing over your shoulder

at the pages you've written

or the days that came

before this one

eyes front

even though you can't see

what's coming 

you must step into the unknown

with hope

with faith 

it will all fall into place

even if you don't know how

(you never know how)

but here we are again

writing

filling the blank page

(how wonderful is that?)

still not knowing 

where the words come from

or how they find their way 

onto the page

they just do

guided by an invisible hand

an angel, perhaps, 

watching over you

The future has yet to be written

I don't know where I'm going

the future is unknown

a sheaf of days

that have yet to be written

blank pages

waiting for words

the words hidden

somewhere in the future

perhaps stored in a pen

I have yet to pick up

peeking out from beneath a nib

waiting to be discovered

or compressed into the charcoal lead

of a #2 pencil, the way diamonds

are pressed beneath stones

waiting for the pressure of

my hand moving across

the page to release them 

Just a glimmer

You reach a point when your mind goes blank 

like a blackboard that's been erased, 

only chalk dust clinging to the board 

but no words,

and you stare into the blankness

wondering where the words went

and if you’ll ever find them—

if they’ll ever appear again,

and suddenly a word—or the shadow

of a word—appears

just a glimmer

but you see it and grab hold and

suddenly it’s like pulling open

a flood gate you didn’t even

know was there 

and the words come spilling onto 

the page again, splishing and splashing, 

words that only moments ago were hidden, 

invisible, nowhere to be found.

 

It's like a miracle happens

Each morning I set aside 

a half-hour to write these pages.

It's the time of day I love--

the silence of early morning, 

the blank pages waiting

in anticipation for words,

the not knowing what I'll find 

on the page, what ideas

or thoughts I might discover.

It's like a miracle happens 

every morning: I open my eyes 

and get out of bed and sit at my desk 

and hold this pen and move my hand 

across the page and see words appear 

beneath my hand, and at the end of 

the 30 minutes I can find a page 

or more filled with words 

like a bucket filled with water, 

sustenance of life, 

evidence of my presence

that I am here, alive, 

savoring this moment. 

You must embark

Each morning you put pen to paper hoping words will appear. 

You never know what you'll write and so you write to find out what you're thinking, what you're feeling.

First, you have to summon the courage to face the blank page. 

Only then can you begin the journey you need to make to an unknown place.

Yes I know, you're unsure of your destination, the same way a bird might lose its way in a storm, and you might seek familiar landmarks that tell you which way to go, and where home is, and how to get there.

Only there are no landmarks. 

There are no signs pointing the way. 

You know only one thing: you must embark. 

You must step into the water. 

You must start swimming.

Even though you have no clue where you're going.

Or how you'll get there.

It's like improv

You don't  have a plan. 

Each morning you take a pen 

and open your journal 

to see what will happen. 

It's this not knowing 

and your curiosity 

that brings you back 

to the page each day 

to see if you'll make 

a new discovery, 

a new way of understanding

yourself and the world, 

a new way of seeing life. 

It's like improv, 

the art of making something 

out of nothing, 

completely spontaneous, 

unscripted, 

just an empty page 

and a desire to find out 

what you're thinking 

and feeling 

in this moment.

You reach a point

You reach a point when your mind

goes blank like a blackboard that's

been erased, only chalk dust clinging

to the board but no words

and you stare into the blankness

wondering where the words went

and if they'll ever  appear again, 

and suddenly a word--

or the shadow of a word -- 

appears, just a glimmer,

but you see it 

and grab hold,

and suddenly it's like pulling open

a flood gate you didn't even know

was there, and the words come

spilling onto the page again

splashing and splattering the page,

filling the page with words that only

moments ago were hidden, invisible,

nowhere to be found.

Leaping into the fog

With each story or poem you must leap

not knowing how it will turn out

whether you can find your way into it 

(and out again), 

whether the words will come, 

whether you'll find the answers to the questions 

you need to ask, 

whether the questions themselves will appear 

or if you'll be left stranded 

staring at a blank page 

stuck 

unable to move 

unable to see through 

the fog of uncertainty, 

not knowing what you don't yet know 

until your pen begins to move 

your fingers start to type

and a path appears 

only after you leap 

into the fog... 

It's just the way 

the writing process works...

How writing works for me

This is how writing works for me.

I start writing. 

I don't have a plan. 

I simply start with whatever is given to me. 

A question. A thought. A memory. 

And I see where it leads. 

It's like stepping into the unknown, following a dark path without a flashlight.

It's like stepping off the edge of a cliff, unsure if I can fly--thinking I can't fly--but stepping into the air anyway, urged by some inner compulsion to test gravity and the rules of the universe.

The words that come from my pen onto the page serve as wings. They keep me aloft. They're like a bridge taking me from one thought to another across the dark chasm of unknowing.

I never know before stepping into the void whether I'll fly, whether I'll make it to the other side without falling into the mire.

Maybe that's one of the reasons I keep taking that step: curious to see what happens, wanting to know if I can still fly, or just wondering where the step will take me today. 

Each day is different. I see the world differently each day.

Yet each day is the same: the fear and doubts never go away. 

What am I doing? Why am I doing it? 

Questions and more questions. 

A blank page. 

A pen in hand. 

How will I answer these questions today? 

Where will the path lead? 

And will I have the courage to carve a new path out of the silence, to follow wherever it leads?

Sometimes I need to slow down, to put my pen away, to take the moments in the morning that I'd spend writing to think instead or read or just watch as thoughts drift by like clouds that pass... 

Sometimes I'll simply hold my pen, not writing, wanting to regain my strength and faith in the process of writing. 

It's the process of writing each day that gives me the chance to discover what I need to say. 

Time and Patience

Writing takes time 

and patience. You wait 

for words, hoping they'll come 

from wherever they come and 

fill the page with whatever 

is hidden in your heart.

Some days they find their way 

to the page; some days the page 

remains blank. You can't know 

ahead of time what you'll find or 

what might appear.

Some days it's like playing 

hide-and-seek: I see you. 

No you don't. Catch me if you can! 

And what you wish you'd written 

remains just beyond your reach, 

still wordless, waiting for another time 

to reveal itself to you.

And so you keep writing, waiting,

hoping whatever is hidden in

your heart will fill the page 

with words.

The Paths We Follow

Each day I sit down to write wondering what I'll discover on the page, not knowing what words will come or where they'll lead me. 

I remember days when I used to sit at my desk in my college dorm room staring at a blank sheet of paper and wanting to write, doubting I could write at all. 

I stared at the typewriter trying to find where the words were hiding, wondering if they'd ever come out to play. It was as if the words were shy mice or rabbits frozen in fear.

I didn't yet know how to let go of fear, how to let my thoughts go free, how to reach in and pull a strand of thought and follow it without knowing where it might lead, without worrying if it would dissolve and leave me stranded on a distant shore with no way of getting back.

Some writers rely on outlines as a way to get past their fear. But outlines inspire a different kind of fear in me--a fear of constraint, of pushing a circle into a square, or a square into a circle. With an outline, I fear that I won't be able to follow my thoughts wherever they might lead. 

I don't want anything to cut me off from the thrill of spontaneous writing, from the joy and magic of seeing my thoughts emerge on the page as they appear in my mind. 

That's why I prefer opening my journal to a blank page and seeing where the words take me. 

There's no path to follow because it doesn't exist. 

I can only see a path after I finish writing and look back to see where I've come from.

Only then can I see the distance I've traveled, and the path I carved to get here.

What about you? 

What paths do you take into your stories?

And what obstacles are standing in your way?

And how do you make your way past them?

Summer doldrums

sitting here

wondering what

to write

waiting for a breeze

carrying words

to my pen

staring at the blank

page the way

sailors must have

stared at the blank

unmoving sea

waiting for wind

to fill their ship's sails

waiting, waiting...

Waiting to be remembered

How many memories
are hidden inside
your heart,
nearly forgotten,
waiting to be remembered,
to be shared
like photographs from
an old album?

How many times
will you sit down
to write
with a blank page
in front of you
and a pen in your hand
thinking you have nothing
to say?

And how many times
will you touch
the page
with the tip of your pen
and see the ink
begin to flow
into words
and suddenly
remember
what you had forgotten?

A New Journal

A new journal
smells like glue
blank pages
unlined
waiting
to be filled
with words
like a bucket
waiting
to be filled
with water
or like a pot
waiting
to be filled
with fresh soil
where words
can be planted
where ideas
can grow.