Where do the words come from?

After all these years

it’s still a mystery

how words flow from

some invisible source

through my arm 

to the pen in my hand

the ink flowing onto the page

letter by letter, word by word.

It feels like I inhale air

and exhale the alphabet.

My pen keeps forming phrases,

sentences, out of the blue

insists on amorphous thoughts

taking shape, becoming

stanzas, paragraphs, pages

that I turn in wonder

awed by the mystery

still trusting the process

curious how words appear

day after day out of nowhere.

Where do the words

come from?

After all these years

it's still a mystery. 

—

 

Finding a kind of rhythm

I find a kind of rhythm, 

even if it feels awkward, 

writing every morning, 

fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, 

sometimes more, 

using a fountain pen 

and a journal from Otterblotter

with unlined pages 

because I prefer the open space, 

the sense of freedom that comes

with an unmarked page, 

a sense of possibilities-- 

anything can appear on 

the page at any moment!--

and even when it feels awkward

or I feel empty and don't think 

I have anything to say

I convince myself to go 

to my desk anyway

say to myself 

just sit down, open the journal, 

pick up a pen, see what happens. 

And I come to the page 

feeling like my head 

is a block of ice... 

and I hold the pen in my hand 

as if it's an ice pick... 

and it's like magic, 

how the ice begins to melt, 

how the pen is like a wand 

that can shatter the ice 

and free my thoughts, 

and here come the words 

spilling onto the page 

like a stream in spring flood.

At the edge of a cliff

Every time you 

sit down to write 

it's like standing 

at the edge of a cliff

and you never know 

how you'll make it across 

the abyss without falling 

there's no net 

to catch you, 

no rope to swing from

and each time 

you pick up a pen, 

it's like closing your eyes 

and jumping into the unknown,

never sure you'll make it 

to the other side,

but it's something 

you need to do 

without knowing why

(you can ask yourself 

why for years without

getting an answer),  and

it won't change anything,

every day you still

have to sit down to write, 

and it will feel the same:

standing at the edge of the cliff

waiting for a breeze

a voice

something

to compel you 

to take that step 

into the unknown

to spread your arms 

as if they're wings

and imagine yourself flying

high above the earth

no longer afraid

no longer hesitant

gliding through the air

your pen gliding across the page

no longer tethered to earth

or to fear

free

defying gravity

finding new ways

to be yourself.

Out of thin air

It's always hard to let go,

to put down your pen,

to take a break.

You don't want to lose

the connection you make

with yourself when you write.

So you debate with yourself--

stop or keep going?

Keep listening or not?

The thing is you never 

know what you'll find

if you keep waiting.

You never know if something 

will fly across the sky and 

you'll catch a glimpse

and suddenly the words

you need to write 

will appear

like magic

out of 

thin air.

But only if you

stay in your chair

and keep waiting

listening to the silence,

staring at the page

in anticipation of

whatever 

might come 

out of nowhere.

Revising, then re-revising

For my current project I’m re-reading the opening lines again and again, and revising, then re-revising.

With each draft I go a little further, adding voices, taking out stanzas, finding words malleable, nothing set in stone.

It’s liberating, this way of revising, but also terrifying. Everything keeps changing. And the implication of such changes (in my mind, at least) is that whatever I wrote to begin with must have been wrong … or not good enough. 

I have to remind myself that each draft is in a state of becoming. 

I have to tell myself it may not be good enough yet, but it will become good enough if I keep revising it.

This doubt (about whether it’s good enough, about whether I’m good enough) only intensifies with each draft and becomes another obstacle that I have to overcome if I want to return to the page each day. 

What’s critical is that I learn to ignore this voice saying I’m not good enough. (Or why bother? Or you’ll never succeed.)

To succeed I need to keep working on the draft. 

I need to keep revising. 

I need to keep alive the curiosity that wants to know what happens next… and what might happen if I add this word or take away this phrase… and how the poem or story might change… and how the reader’s understanding of the story might deepen.

So I keep revising, waiting with hope for the puzzle pieces to fall into place. 

It feels like I’m working without a net.

And on some days I wonder why I do this.

Maybe it’s because I feel such pleasure discovering what might happen, creating something new, something never seen before. 

Maybe it’s because I enjoy carving a path where there never was a path before.

You know the feeling, too, I’m guessing. 

How following your own path leads to moments of discovery that are a source of joy. (Maybe I should call them moments of revelation.) 

Suddenly, the page opens in ways I never could have predicted, and a source of light illuminates the darkness.

This is what I love most about writing.

How the words flow from my pen each morning, how the ink appears on the page, how the lines form into stanzas, paragraphs, poems, stories.

How writing lets me feel as if I’m part of a larger story that I’m trying to tell (and trying to figure out at the same time).

And, most of all, how I can look back after a day or week or month at the pages that have accumulated and feel that I am where I belong, here, with paper and pen in hand, part of an ongoing mystery.

Every morning

Every morning I come into my office,

sit down at my desk, record the date and time,

and for thirty minutes, sometimes longer, 

I open my journal, select a pen, and write.

The first words, the first thoughts,

sometimes play hide-and-seek,

wanting to sleep a few more minutes

before playing on the page,

shy, perhaps, about revealing themselves,

or still sleepy, unsure if they're

ready to begin.

Once the pen touches the paper

and a spot of ink appears

beneath it on the page,

those words and those thoughts

gain courage and strength

and begin to race each other

onto the page to see who will be

the first to appear, 

flowing like a stream,

gaining momentum and force,

like a river merging with the sea.

Each word another drop of water,

the letters like sea spray

released by waves crashing

onto the shore,

rivulets forming in the sand

as the tide retreats.

You can feel your breath

ebbing and flowing

at the beginning

and end 

of each line,

leaving diamond crystals

glittering on the sand,

and shells you've never seen before

waiting to be picked up

and carried away.

You can't know how or why

You can't know

how or why

you can only know

what you know

the feel of the pen

in your hand

the scrape of the nib

on paper

the smoothness of

a blank page

the joy of seeing

the page fill

with words

ink flowing onto

the page

your hand rushing

to keep up

with your thoughts

that feeling of

wishing you could

stay in this place

forever

writing

feeling a connection

with something larger

than yourself

a part of the universe

inside you

that you touch each time

you hold a pen

and move your hand across

the page

like plugging 

into your heart

like hearing

the song

your soul

sings

like praying

to God

and knowing 

God is there

listening

They say if you want to write

They say if you want to write

you need to write about

what hurts the most,

so you ask yourself

what's causing you the most pain,

and then you wait

to see what your heart reveals.

But what if they're wrong

and you don't need to write

about what hurts the most?

What if you need to write about

what you love most? About life?

About what you're most grateful for?

What if you need to write about

what you notice in the world

around you--the beauty

of a cardinal's red feathers

flashing in the morning light,

the sound of the wind riffling

the leaves on a spring day,

the pleasure you feel when

you stretch and open your eyes 

to wake up each morning?

What if you feel pain on some days,

love and gratitude on others, and 

you let your pen take you

wherever you need to go each day,

creating a path as you go?

What if you give your heart a chance

to reveal what it feels,

give yourself a chance to hear

what you need to hear and

write what you need 

to write?

The way words fall on the page

The way words

fall on the page

like snowflakes

making patterns

on the windowpane.

It's mesmerizing--

writing, putting words

down on paper--

every word shaped

differently, creating

a new pattern

on the page,

an image

that never existed before,

each word

like a window

offering a new view

of the world.

Every morning

Every morning I sit down 

at my desk not knowing 

what I'll write, 

not knowing if 

I'll find the words

to write anything at all.

I can spend hours filled 

with doubt that I have nothing 

to say, no words forming

in the back of my throat

waiting to emerge.

There's only silence 

and doubt, and a kind of

stubborn determination 

that I must write something

if the day--if my life--

is going to mean anything.

I listen for words,

for a sound,

for a whisper,

hoping I'll hear something 

that will prompt a word 

to emerge out of hiding.

It's like playing a game of

hide-and-seek. 

All I need

is one word--

one syllable,

one sigh--

and I can pull it 

like a loose thread

and, with luck,

find more words.

And once the words 

begin to appear,

the worries vanish.

There's only the pen

moving quickly 

over the blank page

trying to catch the words

like butterflies

before they disappear.

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 

Listening for words

Listening for words

waiting for a voice

to whisper in my ear

hoping I'll recognize

it when I hear it--

if I hear it--

not knowing what

to expect

sitting in anticipation

of something

(but what?)

not knowing anything

more than the

blank page

and the pen in

my hand

poised over the page

waiting to hear

what I've never heard before

praying I'll be able to

catch the words

with my pen

and bring them

to the page

like pearls

drawn from

the depths

of the sea.

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.

 

The way ink dries

The way ink smudges

before it dries

the way letters form 

on the page

the way a simple line

can convey meaning

the way words

sound like your voice

the way your hand

holds the pen

the way a poem

takes shape

the way we fill

the silence

the way each letter,

each line, is part

of the mystery.

—

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 dreaming

Each morning I listen to the silence

and hope to hear a voice and words

I've never heard before.

I listen with my ears

but, really, it's a different

kind of listening

that requires you to open

your heart, to hear

what you're afraid to say

or what you don't yet know

you need to say.

It's your voice and not your voice,

it's your hand holding the pen

and writing down the words

on the page and not your hand.

You hear something, a voice

beyond words. (Are there even 

words to describe it?)

It's like being bathed in light

or immersed in water

and you feel like you're floating

on the page as words 

emerge from your pen

and you see the letters

taking shape and the words

forming on the page

even before the words form

in your mind--as if

you are witnessing your thoughts

coming into being,

what you think and feel

unknown until you can

see the words floating 

in front of you.

It's like dreaming,

and when you open

your eyes the dream vanishes,

and you see instead

a page filled with the words 

you collected from a world

before it disappeared.

Where are you going

Where are you going

and how do you know

you're on the right path?

What are the signposts 

you look for?

How can you see a turn

coming in the fog?

Who is walking with you?

Why are you making this

journey anyway?

Whose voice do you hear

encouraging you to keep

going?

Whose voice do you hear

telling you to stop

before you hurt

yourself?

What is worth the risk

of venturing into the unknown?

How do you protect yourself?

How do you reach further

than your ever thought

you could reach? 

Where does the path end?

(And where does it begin?)

And can you rest along the way

or do you have to keep going?

And where does the path lead?

And how much farther do you

have to go?

Is anyone listening or are you

here alone in the fog?

How far does your voice carry?

Can you hear an echo?

A call in response?

What comes next?

Where are you going

and how do you know

you're on the right path?

Just an empty sky

No poems in sight

this morning,

just an empty horizon,

a cloudless sky without words

and mundane thoughts of errands

that need to be run,

visits to be made,

plans for the weekend,

prose without poetry--

like life without music--

no poems in sight

this morning,

just an empty sky.

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.