What you need to do

You need to arrange your life

so that being able to write

is your first priority

(and being able to read

your second).

You need to set aside time

without feeling guilty

you're not earning

a living.

You need to let yourself

enjoy writing... and not 

disparage the process

because nothing comes

of the words you 

put on paper

today.

You need to sit

and think regardless

of what others think

you should be doing,

to daydream, to follow

wherever the path

leads you.

You need to stop trying

to control the process,

to open your heart

and look inside

without flinching

or turning away.

You need to let yourself

feel whatever emotion

you need to feel, to resist

doubt, fear, uncertainty,

to ignore the voice

in your head telling 

you that you have

nothing to say,

nothing of worth

to offer,

no reason to pick up

your pen

or that you're not

smart enough

or imaginative enough

or brave enough.

You need to savor

each day, each moment,

the pen moving across the page

the ink leaving marks behind,

evidence that you are here--

living, breathing,

alive.

 

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

Out of nowhere

It’s so strange how poems

come out of nowhere

like clouds passing by

like birds soaring overhead

fluttering to a branch for just a moment

suddenly still

then flying off again

or like rabbits 

hiding in the grass

playing a game of hide-and-seek

or peek-a-boo. 

Catch me if you can!

What if you think of your pen 

as a butterfly net chasing words, 

trying to catch your thoughts 

before they disappear?

Or maybe writing is like fishing—

casting your line into the water, 

waiting for something to bite, 

an odd mix of waiting and hoping, 

trying not to get discouraged,

wanting words to appear on the page.

And when they appear, 

you have to act quickly, 

your pen racing across the page 

trying to capture the words 

as they spill out of your heart.

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...

Leaping into a new pool

Dear Wordswimmers:

You know that feeling when you're swimming in one direction and after a while you need to find a new direction to swim in?

That happened recently when I received a fountain pen from my cousin and I switched from using gel pens to writing with a fountain pen, and suddenly it was if I was swimming in a new direction and a whole new world opened up.

The switch to a fountain pen led unexpectedly to the discovery of different kinds of journals, and I discovered how different it felt to write on quality paper in new journals like the ones that I bought from one of the many Japanese companies that produce fine journals. (Midori journals are my favorite.)

Using a fountain pen and a new journal transformed the way I feel about writing in ways that I could never have imagined.

And now, with recent changes to Blogger, which is eliminating email subscriptions, I feel the need to explore a new direction yet again. 

I know it can be challenging to try something new--it takes a leap of faith, doesn't it?--but I know it also can be liberating. 

Anyway, I've decided to swim in a new direction and leap into a different pool. 

Beginning on Sunday, July 4th, I'll share my wordswimmer posts on Substack (free for readers), and we'll see what happens.

Who knows? Maybe I'll discover something about the writing process that I'd never known before. Or maybe I'll meet writers who I never would have met if I hadn't switched directions.

I'll still planning to post thoughts and musings about writing and books here, so you don't have to swim in a new direction if you find the water here to your liking. (I happen to love swimming here and wouldn't go elsewhere, except for the email changes.)

So, if you happen to find yourself, like me, wanting to swim in a new direction, you might enjoy checking out my wordswimmer newsletter on Substack, especially since it'll come as an email straight to your email inbox.

Whether you stay here or take the leap with me, I hope wherever you decide to dive in that you'll discover a new way of understanding the writing process.

Here's the link if you feel like swimming over: https://bruceblack.substack.com

I'm looking forward to seeing you in the pool (here or there) sometime soon.

Take care, and keep writing!

Bruce

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.

The Way It Starts

Sometimes it can start with an image--a red apple held in your father's hand, say, or the weathered wall of a wooden barn in Wisconsin.

Sometimes you aren't given an image at all but a word--raisin, for instance, or magenta, or owl, or hope.

Sometimes it can begin with silence, with the sound of your breath, with nothing but a blank sheet of paper waiting beneath your pen.

You have a choice.

You can sit for years complaining about why you have nothing to write, nothing to say.

Or you can learn to sit with silence, waiting.

It isn't until you learn how to sit and accept the silence that you can begin to hear words singing beneath the silence and see how they fit together to form phrases, sentences, paragraphs, pages.

It takes a good deal of patience to learn how to do this, how to sit this way for weeks and months, listening to the silence rather than running from it and from whatever might be scaring you.

When you start out, no one will tell you that you need courage or a reservoir of hope or faith in your own ability. (When I started out, I was told all I needed was a typewriter.)

No one will tell you how the blank pages will remain blank day after day with stories left untold, or how the silence of the blank page will haunt you on days when words refuse to come.

If you persist, though, and can find courage and hope and patience and faith, you'll discover a part of yourself that you never knew existed.

If you persist, you'll discover stories hidden inside you which have the power to reaffirm your belief in life, in the world, in those around you.

You'll find the energy of life that runs through all beings, all stories, so you can feel connected to something larger than yourself.

First, though, you must sit with the silence and wait.

Writing Happens Like This

Writing happens like this:

You never know what will appear when you sit down to write.

You only know you are a little scared that nothing will happen—no words, no ideas, no thoughts will come—and you'll be left staring at a blank page.

So, you sit and wait for something that isn’t yet on the page.

And when you find the courage to take that leap of faith and start writing, words do appear.

And these words lead to images and scenes and new ideas and thoughts.

And the next thing you know, the story is coming to life, breathing, expanding—not always where you might want or where you might have expected it to go.

You write until the words return to wherever they come from, and then you sit in silence and wait again—however long it takes—for the words to return.

It’s an ongoing process: listening, waiting, adding words, erasing words, hoping, dreaming.

Day after day.

Word after word.

Writing doesn’t always come in a rush of words like a waterfall (though sometimes the words can come so quickly it’s hard to keep up with them).

More often it’s like a reluctant spigot, a faucet with a knob that’s difficult to turn. 

It's hard to remember that if you sit and wait, the words will flow on their own, without any need for you to twist a knob.

All it takes is learning to sit and wait with pen poised over paper, or fingers suspended over the keyboard, and remain alert and listen closely and keep hoping.

It takes enormous faith to believe that the words will come.

But when they come, they can fill you with a deep sense of connection, and that’s the best kind of writing.

It doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does, writing can seem as natural as breathing.

Inhale an idea, an image.

Exhale a word, a phrase.

Before you realize it, you’ve written a sentence, a paragraph, a page.

And in front of you is your story.

Long Distance Swim

Tomorrow I'm setting off on a long distance swim, heading far from shore and leaving behind the familiar landmarks that I’ve grown accustomed to seeing on my weekly swim sessions over the past few years.

It will mean entering new territory, new water, and as I write these words I am trying to prepare for the unknown, jettisoning my expectations, just wanting to feel the water touch my skin as my arms rise and fall in steady strokes, carrying me forward.

I’m hoping that I’ll be able to stay afloat if I grow tired, that I’ll find a place to rest with people who will offer support in my journey. I’m wondering if I will return with a new story or empty-handed, or if I’ll return at all.

It’s always like that for me at the beginning of a journey. I never know how it will turn out. But I can’t let the not knowing keep me from setting out. Indeed, it’s the not knowing that lures me forward into the deep, pulls me past fears and uncertainty toward the glimmer of possibility that glows on the horizon just beyond my reach.

Each new project, indeed, each new experience in our lives, challenges us to reach beyond what we know and swim toward something that is only a faint glimmer, a faint promise, wavering in front of us.

On some days that glimmer may seem like an illusion, a hallucination that comes after spending so much time in the water. On other days, it may seem as real and solid as a sharp reef that you accidentally scrape with your leg.

Once you decide to leave shore, there is no turning back.

You make preparations. You gather supplies and equipment. Energy bars, check. Notebooks, check. Gel pens, check. Laptop, check. Hope, prayers, faith, check.

The thing about setting off on this long distance swim is that I can’t say when I’m coming back. I know I’ll miss our Sunday morning swims together. But I have to go.

So, tomorrow I’ll dive into the water—perhaps you’ll hear a splash—and begin swimming toward the horizon and hope my luck holds true.

The next time you see a swimmer in the ocean crossing the edge of the horizon, a small speck moving slowly across your line of vision, I hope you’ll wave and send prayers to help keep him afloat.

You never know. That swimmer may be me.

May you swim in health and may your stories continue to keep you afloat as you make your way past the rapids and shoals of writing toward the promise of your own horizon.

Keep the faith, and keep swimming!

Stepping Into The Unknown

In my work-in-progress, I feel that I’ve arrived at a turning point, and the question that keeps repeating itself is this: Where does the story need to go next?

To be honest, I don’t know.

The outline that I started weeks ago doesn’t help. Since writing the opening pages, I’ve veered off the path.

I don’t feel like I’m stuck in a swamp. It feels more like I’ve found my way into open terrain, a vast plain, with nothing visible on the horizon.

The trouble with being unable to see anything on the horizon is that it’s not clear which way to go. There is no path. I have to remind myself no one before has ever traveled this route.

My initial impulse to this overwhelming uncertainty is to flee. I want to leave the manuscript in my backpack and take out another project to work on.

But then I stop myself from reaching for another project. There is no reason to flee, I tell myself, no reason to shy away from the unknown.

If I can pause for a moment and notice the world around me, I can see where I am.

It may not be familiar territory. It may be a place where I’ve never been before. But if I can let go of my fear of the unknown, I can sense what’s in front of me.

Not a path, exactly. Just the hint of a faint vibration pulling me one way rather than another.

I can take a risk, step into the water, and swim toward whatever's pulling me to see where it will lead.

If it begins to feel like I’m swimming away from my story, I can start over. I can set off in another direction.

So I begin to reread the pages of my work-in-progress.

I review the outline hoping to detect the hint of an arc, an arrow pointing the way that I need to go next.

Two hours later... after re-immersing myself in revisions... I found something unexpected.

The plot began to unfold.

But only after I took that first step into the unknown.

Stepping into the unknown--taking that leap of faith--was the key.

What about you? What do you do when you no longer know where the story needs to go? How do you find your way? How do you convince yourself to leap, to step into the unknown?

Write and let us know when you get a chance.