What do you do when you run out of words?

What do you do

when you run 

out of words 

and all your ideas 

have dried up?

I keep writing anyway, 

afraid to stop on the

chance I may find more

words hidden where

I can't see them.

I don't want to lose 

any time, don't want to 

miss a single word, 

keep hoping I'll find 

some meaning 

in it all.

In life, I mean, and 

maybe in writing, too, 

some idea that gives 

it all a shape that

I can understand.

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 

Trust words will come

To find out what you're thinking

you sit and write for thirty minutes,

each word like a knock on the door

and you wonder what's hidden on the other

side and if you should answer.

You start out not knowing what you'll find,

which words will appear in what order,

yet you trust words will come out of 

the silence, out of some mysterious

source you've never understood.

Even after years of sitting every

morning, writing page after page,

this process is still a mystery-- 

how (and why) words appear 

the way they do, and what you'll find

on the page after you finish writing.

It's like waking from a dream--

not knowing where 

the dream came from... 

or where it went.

Wondering About Words

On some mornings I sit down to write wondering where words come from and, if they come, why they come to me or to anyone else, really.

I wonder if words come from some secret place hidden beneath our feet—somewhere deep under the earth, perhaps?— or from somewhere high above, way beyond the clouds, way beyond the moon and the stars?

I wonder if words are simply invisible until they appear on the page, which is the reason why we can’t see them floating through space like foreign objects that come to earth carrying a message from another planet sent especially to us.

I wonder how we find the words we need to express what’s hidden in our hearts, words that describe the mix of thoughts and feelings swirling inside us.

I wonder if maybe it isn’t that we find words but that words find us, as if we’re magnets that can draw to us the words we need to help us explain how it feels today or how it felt yesterday to inhabit this body, to dive into the unknown not knowing what we’ll find, just hoping words will appear to help us understand what we need and who we are and where we belong.

I wonder every morning — or whatever time of day I sit down to write — if the page is really blank or if it’s filled with words I can’t yet see and which only come into being the moment I begin writing. 

I wonder if words are inside us, locked in some mysterious storehouse, and how we’re supposed to find the key, and then I wonder if words are all around us, waiting for us to catch them, how a writer is born with a net in his or her hand to capture them like butterflies before they get away.

I wonder about words which flow on some days like a steady stream and on other days like a trickle and I wonder how on other days there's nothing more than a dry creek bed where words once flowed.

I wonder how words became as much a part of our lives as the water we drink, the

air we breathe, and equally necessary for our survival.

I wonder why we wait and wait and wait, never knowing if anything will appear on the page in front of us, until one day a word appears… and then another.

Stepping Back into the Water

When I set off on my long-distance swim three months ago, I stepped into the surf and headed into the unknown water of brain surgery like a swimmer being carried by rapids over the steep falls ahead, hoping that I'd survive the drop and emerge safely in the calm pool of water below. 

Weeks later, the first time that I sat down to write after the surgery, my head still sore and my thinking still woozy from the fall, I felt lost in a fog bank, disoriented, not sure which way to go, or whether to go at all.

I held a pen in my hand but it felt like a foreign object. I didn't have the strength or energy to sit at my desk. I was disconsolate, wanting to write but not knowing how to get back into the water. It felt as if my depth-perception had changed. I couldn't tell the difference between shallow and deep water. 

For weeks I stayed on shore and watched other writers swimming, afraid to go into the water myself. I read a lot. I listened to books on tape. I was blessed with a loving wife and family who cared for me as I recuperated on shore. So many people called, sent get well notes and gifts. Friends drove over to keep me company. We drank lots of herbal tea, and we ate lots of homemade brownies and banana bread. 

When I started writing again it was to send brief notes of gratitude to the people who had done so much to help me recuperate and regain my strength and balance. Everyone's willingness to share stories reminded me of my own love of stories and of the magic of words to bring people together in mysterious ways. 

This is my roundabout way of saying thank you to everyone for the prayers and good wishes sent for my recovery. But it's also a note of gratitude to the many writers who I've never met but whose postings (on Facebook or Twitter or elsewhere online) and whose books have kept me afloat over the past few months. Even as I floundered on the shallows after the surgery, unsure if I'd ever have the strength or desire to write again, I sensed the shadow of your presence in the water as you kept writing, kept believing in the power of words and the magic of storytelling. 

I don't know what form wordswimmer's posts will take in the weeks and months ahead. Brief snippets of inspiration? Long letters of frustration and disappointment? Links to other blogs? Quotes to help us all stay in the water ?  I'll have to wait and see what the water feels like each week. Maybe I'll dive in. And maybe I'll prefer to stay dry and gather my strength for the next week's swim or the next. As Theodore Roethke writes: "I learn, by going, where I have to go."

Little by little I'm making my way back into the water, but it takes patience and time. My fingers remembering how to type. My brain remembering how to form words. My imagination remembering the pleasure of telling stories. What's important, most of all, is the intention to swim. 

I hope you'll keep writing. You never know how your words inspire others to stay in the water and keep swimming, but I can tell you that your words and stories matter. I know this because your comments and postings and notes and stories and poems have inspired me. 

The proof is here: I'm in the water. Swimming with words again. 

Message in a Bottle

When I started writing years ago, I used to think stories contained hidden messages like notes that a writer had placed in a bottle and sent across the sea.

That kind of thinking assumes that a story is like a cryptogram or treasure map, and that my job as a writer is to plant the clues so a reader can discover the hidden message.

But now, after years of writing (and reading), I wonder if a story has to contain clues to a hidden message.  It’s hard enough as a writer, after all, to clarify what it is that you’re trying to say, isn’t it?

So, why is it necessary to conceal what you want to say in the form of a hidden message?

Of course, lots of writers over the centuries have crafted stories to reveal a special message. Most recently, J.K. Rowling sent her readers hidden messages in the Harry Potter series. Clues were concealed with care, the mystery of a scene was enhanced, readers were charmed… and children, like my daughter, spent hours searching through the books for answers to puzzles that the plot and characters presented on every page.

Symbolism--a scarlet A, for instance, the toll of a bell, a great white whale, a secret door--can often lead a reader into a deeper understanding of a story. But most writers (those who I know, at any rate) are content to let the meaning of a story evolve out of the writing itself. As the process unfolds, bit by bit, the story’s meaning becomes clearer to the writer, and, ultimately, to the reader.

What do you think? Does a story's meaning rely on hidden messages and on clues that a writer might leave like breadcrumbs in a forest to help readers find their way?

Do you slip hidden clues and messages into your stories as if sending your reader notes in a bottle?

Or do you prefer to let the meaning of your story emerge out of the natural process of writing, discovering the meaning of a story in the words as they appear on the page?

Let us know when you get a chance.

For more info on finding meaning in stories, visit:

http://www.absolutewrite.com/novels/hidden_meanings.htm

http://iamstory.com/psychology/meaning-in-stories/

http://www.123helpme.com/view.asp?id=100295