If you don’t follow the words when they come,

If you don’t follow the words when they come,

if you fail to pay attention or

if you think you can find them later or

if you make the mistake of ignoring them or

if you believe they’re unimportant or

if you hope you’ll be able to draw them out of thin air sometime later, 

maybe when you have the time, 

or maybe after dinner, 

or maybe just before you get into bed, or

if you put off writing just because you’re embarrassed 

to stand still in the middle of the sidewalk 

typing on your phone or jotting in your notebook 

as people pass you by 

afraid they’ll think you’re rude 

not to say hello or acknowledge those around you, 

if you don’t follow the words the moment they appear, 

listen, I’m telling you 

they’ll fade into the mist and disappear 

and it’s rare—if ever—that you’ll find them again, 

they’ll desert you in search of someone else prepared 

to hear their call, someone listening with an open heart 

the way you need to listen patiently for days or weeks or months, 

for however long it takes, for the sound you’ve been waiting 

and wanting to hear, and you—

you, the one who couldn’t spare a moment, 

who pretended not to hear anything—

if you don't follow the words when they come,

you’ll be left empty handed with nothing more than 

a faint dream of what might have been 

on the blank page in front of you .

The Paths We Follow

Each day I sit down to write wondering what I'll discover on the page, not knowing what words will come or where they'll lead me. 

I remember days when I used to sit at my desk in my college dorm room staring at a blank sheet of paper and wanting to write, doubting I could write at all. 

I stared at the typewriter trying to find where the words were hiding, wondering if they'd ever come out to play. It was as if the words were shy mice or rabbits frozen in fear.

I didn't yet know how to let go of fear, how to let my thoughts go free, how to reach in and pull a strand of thought and follow it without knowing where it might lead, without worrying if it would dissolve and leave me stranded on a distant shore with no way of getting back.

Some writers rely on outlines as a way to get past their fear. But outlines inspire a different kind of fear in me--a fear of constraint, of pushing a circle into a square, or a square into a circle. With an outline, I fear that I won't be able to follow my thoughts wherever they might lead. 

I don't want anything to cut me off from the thrill of spontaneous writing, from the joy and magic of seeing my thoughts emerge on the page as they appear in my mind. 

That's why I prefer opening my journal to a blank page and seeing where the words take me. 

There's no path to follow because it doesn't exist. 

I can only see a path after I finish writing and look back to see where I've come from.

Only then can I see the distance I've traveled, and the path I carved to get here.

What about you? 

What paths do you take into your stories?

And what obstacles are standing in your way?

And how do you make your way past them?

Where do you go to find words?

Where do you go to find words? 

Is there a store you can drive to in the mall and 

purchase them by the dozen?

Or is it like going to a deli on Sunday morning 

and taking a number, waiting your turn, 

then ordering the words you want--sliced extra lean, 

a quarter-pound or a pound, 

with a pickle or two on the side?

Or is it more like bird-watching, 

waiting in stillness with binoculars around your neck, 

scanning the sky, hoping words will come into view, 

wings spread, flying into sight so you can record 

their presence before they depart for their next destination, 

as if they might leap off the page of your journal 

in search of a permanent home.

Or is it like fishing, 

waiting for a nibble, a bite, waiting

for the line to tug down and the rod to bend

toward the water, and you can feel the words pulling

as you grope for a way to haul them up, maybe

using a net, maybe just with your bare hands, 

so you can get the words on the page, 

wet and glistening like jewels, 

gills still rising and falling, 

vibrating with life.  

Where do words come from?

Where do words come from?

The air, 

like specks of dust

floating free, unseen,

until they fall

onto the page?

The heart, 

flowing through 

your veins

and arteries 

until they reach 

your hand?

The eyes, 

seeing so much 

beauty in the world

you can't help

recording what

they see?

The pen, 

in your hand,

moving across the page

leaving words behind

as proof that you were here

if only for the blink

of an eye?

The breath, 

out of which each word 

forms and is brought 

into being?