You never know where your pen will take you

You never know when you begin

where your pen will take you.

It's like stepping into a boat

and setting sail across a lake

hoping for the wind to point you

in the right direction.

Or like diving into a pool

hoping you can float.

It's always a mystery how one word

leads to another, how you can create

a trail of words and a path appears

that didn't exist before you began.

It's always a surprise what you find 

along the way, something unexpected, 

something you've never seen before,

something you're able to see in a new light,

from a new perspective. 

You never know what you'll find 

each time you begin. It's like going 

on a treasure hunt, like being pulled 

by a magnet you can't see, can only feel 

tugging at your heart.

The mysterious rhythm of words

The mysterious rhythm of words--

how they arrive on the tip

of your pen one moment

and are gone the next

how they flow onto the page

on some days, spilling 

so fast you can barely

keep up

how they refuse

to emerge from your pen

on other days, suddenly shy

reluctant to show themselves,

unwilling to appear

how you have to learn

to wait, to be patient, and

how to coax them

from their hiding places

and how you have to learn this:

it's all part of the mysterious rhythm 

of words, part of the mystery 

of the writing process

a mixture of silence and sounds

melody and harmony

poetry and prose

each word containing a secret

each word a key to a puzzle

you need to solve,

each word a secret path

leading to a doorway

only you can open.

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.

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.