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 

Replenishing the well

Lately I've shortened the time I spend writing in the morning.

In part it's an effort to re-charge my energy after a busy month and give myself a rest. The chance to rest will, I hope, help replenish the well out of which all words come. 

Every so often I think the well, which feels close to empty now, needs time to refill itself.  

I don't remember the last time I took a break. All I know is that month after month words have flowed from my pen, and that I've held the pen waiting to see what emerged. 

I never know what word will appear until its shape forms on the page beneath my pen. It's part of the mystery of how writing works.

This process of stepping into the mystery day after day, and not knowing what I'll find, is part of what keeps drawing me back to the page. 

I try not to have any expectations (just hope that I'll be able to write something). 

It's like receiving a gift, the feel of the pen in my hand, the sensation of moving the pen across the page, the sound of the nib scraping the paper, the sign of words appearing, as if by magic, on the page. 

And maybe what draws me back, too, is the simple act of leaving words behind on a page like footprints in the sand.

Evidence to show that I existed, at least for a day.

Before the waves of time wash the words away. 

There are secrets you can't see or know

There are secrets you can't see or know

until you begin writing.

Your pen opens the world 

like a key unlocking a door.

Each page is like an empty canyon

waiting for the echo of your voice

to fill it.

Sitting at your desk is like watching 

the waves of the sea, waiting for them 

to bring the mysteries of the deep to the surface 

so you can sort through shells and seaweed, 

sea glass and stones, and find whatever 

your eye deems worth saving.

Paper is like sand

holding memories

until time washes them away

like footprints on the beach.

We are here, then gone.

Poof!

And all that's left behind

are these words

which someone may-- 

or may not -- find 

one day.

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...

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.

What will you write?

What will you write about
in the days ahead?

The future is unknown
blank pages waiting
to be filled.

You can't know ahead of
time what words will come
or if they'll come at all.

You can't know if you'll
be able to break through
the wall of silence

or if you'll be trapped
unable to speak,
your voice not even
a whisper.

You can't know what
you don't yet know.

You only know what's
in your hand now--
the pen you're holding
the paper beneath your hand
the shadow of the pen
moving across the page.

Whatever words appear
from whatever source
they flow out of,
however they emerge,
will reveal what you
know and what
you don't know.

The future will unfurl
from the present, just
as the present unfurls
from the past.

You will only know
what you'll write about,
looking back, after
you have written.

Insights into Writing: Kyoko Mori

In Kyoko Mori’s new memoir, Yarn: Remembering the Way Home, a remarkable meditation on knitting and the themes of love and loss, Mori shares valuable insights into her writing process.

In the passage below, for instance, Mori describes her writing as a process of "holding on and letting go..." that provides her with a way of moving forward into new terrain rather than simply repeating herself.

Here’s what she writes:

Knitting had taught me to plunge into color and swim through it, each row of stitches like a long lap across the pool. Though the motion seemed repetitive, the rows were adding up to a larger design just as the laps were adding to the actual distance I had traveled. My writing, too, had to be a movement and not a repetition. If I could match the perfect knitting tension in my head–holding on and letting go at once–then the words and the sentences sometimes veered away from where they were going and guided me to a new thought that surprised me. I found myself suddenly on the other side of the muddled, tangled phrases, with words for what I didn’t know before. Those were the moments to write for. (p. 146)

Mori notices a tension--"the perfect tension"--in her head when she knits, doesn’t she? Where does that tension come from? She suggests that it comes from holding on and letting go at once. And she discovers that if, while writing, she can match that tension--holding on to the familiar while letting go into the unknown--she can break through to discover a new thought and new words “for what I didn’t know before.”

Here’s another passage:

But in writing, the best passages came to me either as a complete surprise–whole sentences effortlessly appearing in the back of my mind–or else they were the result of so many agonized revisions that, later, I couldn’t bear to recall how I’d arrived at the final version. Either way, the not-knowing was the price I had to pay to write the few sentences among many that gave me the most pleasure. Once I got something right, I couldn’t do it again. (p. 187)

Here Mori points to a slightly different kind of tension, the kind that comes from “not knowing” ... and explains how not knowing can lead to knowing, regardless of whether the words that emerge are the result of numerous revisions or if they come as a complete surprise.

In both passages Mori provides insights into the writing process that might help you as you begin swimming your laps in the year ahead.

For more on Kyoko Mori’s newest book, Yarn, visit:
http://www.gemmamedia.com/shop/pc/viewPrd.asp?idproduct=18&idcategory=

And for more about Mori, visit:
http://www.eduplace.com/kids/tnc/mtai/mori.html

Not Knowing

On Sunday mornings, soon after posting on Wordswimmer, I'll drive over to Dunkin’ Donuts for a cup of coffee (and one or two Munchkins) and spend an hour or two writing.

Sometimes I’ll know in advance what I’m going to work on, but most often I'll have no idea what will happen.

All I know is that I have my notebook and pen in my knapsack, and a few bills in my pocket to buy the coffee and doughnuts. Beyond that? I never know what to expect.

For years this not knowing proved intimidating. Indeed, it was the most painful part of my writing process, and, often, I’d seek ways to avoid writing just to escape from the pain of not knowing.

Inevitably, I'd find it too great an obstacle to move past, an impediment to getting the words on paper.

The pain--maybe I should say the pain and shame that I felt on not knowing--was enough to send me scurrying away from my writing desk in search of a safer, less exposed place. (The basketball court, for instance, when I was younger, or, more recently, the pool.)

But I've come to learn (over years and years of practice) to accept the not knowing as an integral part of the process.

I have to be willing to sit down to write not knowing what will come.

I have to be willing to work past the momentary feelings of pain and shame (which still haunt me when I don’t know something but feel that I should know) and summon the courage to explore whatever is on my mind or whatever I’m feeling, even if I don’t know when I start writing what it is that I’m thinking or feeling.

Working past the not knowing--or, rather, working through the not knowing--is the only way that I can discover through the physical act of writing what’s on my mind or what I’m feeling.

Not knowing isn’t just part of the writing process. It is the writing process.

Not knowing is like a door: you don’t know what’s on the other side until you turn the knob and open it.

Or like swimming: you don’t know what you’ll find in the water until you dive in.

When you fear what you don’t know (as I often do) or feel embarrassed by not knowing (like me), you’re responding to fear, not just the fear of what other people will think, but fear of your own inadequacy or ignorance.

If you’re going to write, you cannot allow fear to rule you.

You must be willing to sit with not knowing. Only when you sit with it--sometimes for hours, sometimes for days or weeks--will you be able to write from a deeper place, a place beyond what you know or think you know.

If you can accept the fact of not knowing, the not knowing will lead you to a place where you'll find what you need to know.

It's that place where your inner truths--and your inner voice--are stored, waiting for you to find them.

For more on not knowing, visit:
http://lifedev.net/2009/08/not-knowing/
http://emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/2009/03/telling-stories-and-feeling-the-notknowing.html
http://www.creativity-portal.com/articles/naomi-rose/not-knowing-guide.html
http://christinabakerkline.wordpress.com/2009/07/14/on-not-knowing-what-the-hell-youre-doing/
http://www.secondjourney.org/itin/09_Fall/Gilgun_09Fall.htm
http://www.indiacurrents.com/news/view_article.html?article_id=3543666ffb77c82e4cdb0b00e920a5db
http://events.stanford.edu/events/123/12356/
http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/story?oid=oid%3A677848