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.

 

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.

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. 

Savor the silence

Take a moment to breathe.
Just wait before touching
your pen to the page

and let the blankness
of the empty journal
wash over you

like the waves of the sea,
like the silence of an empty house,
like the pause between breaths.

Just listen for a moment to
how the white page, not yet
filled with words,

sounds like walking through
falling snow, and not a single
footprint marks a path

and the possibilities
of where you might go
are endless.

Take a moment to breathe,
to savor the silence of
the empty page.

Just wait before touching
your pen to the page,
and then begin...