Just beyond the next breath

Do you ever wonder what keeps drawing you 

back to the page each morning--day after day, 

month after month, year after year?

Or why you return like a lost soul not knowing 

who you are or where you're going, the only certainty 

the pen you hold in your hand (as long as the ink lasts),

and the blank page waiting for you to fill it with words?

Maybe it's because the moment your hand touches the page, 

you feel like you've come home, no longer lost or blind, and

the world you couldn't see moments ago suddenly becomes clear

waiting for you to enter.

Maybe it's because you feel like you set off on a journey 

each morning, like stepping into a boat and pushing off from shore

to see what is waiting for you just around the bend, just past the curve 

in the bank, just beyond the next breath.

Maybe it's because you live for these moments, for the chance 

to swim into your imagination, to return to the place where you know

you can be yourself without pretense, without a mask, the place

where you can remember who you are and why you pick up a pen 

and open your journal and fill a blank page with words each morning.

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 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.

It's like improv

You don't  have a plan. 

Each morning you take a pen 

and open your journal 

to see what will happen. 

It's this not knowing 

and your curiosity 

that brings you back 

to the page each day 

to see if you'll make 

a new discovery, 

a new way of understanding

yourself and the world, 

a new way of seeing life. 

It's like improv, 

the art of making something 

out of nothing, 

completely spontaneous, 

unscripted, 

just an empty page 

and a desire to find out 

what you're thinking 

and feeling 

in this moment.

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?

The Magic of Writing with a Fountain Pen

“My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course.” — Graham Greene

It may seem foolish, even a bit self-indulgent, to write about fountain pens when so many pressing issues threaten our world. 

But a fountain pen has not only helped me put aside my worries about the world for the brief time that I take each morning to write with one, it has also rekindled my pleasure in the process of writing by hand. 

The immediacy of writing with a fountain pen surprised me the moment the nib first touched the page and the ink seeped out of the pen, seeming to bleed onto the paper.

It felt like the pen was alive, a newly discovered part of my hand connecting me in some mysterious and supernatural way to my heart, and as I wrote, my hand moving across the page, it felt like the ink was coming straight from my veins.

Until a few months ago, I hadn’t used a fountain pen since high school. 

Remember how messy those fountain pens were to use back then? Often, I’d end up with more ink on my hands than on the page.

I’d write and the pen would leak and the ink would leave stains on my fingers and smudges on the pages and messy ink spots on my palms. 

For years afterward I preferred writing with ballpoint pens. I would buy cheap pens that I could throw away easily after they ran out of ink or dried up or broke in my backpack. Best of all, they didn’t drain my wallet of the little cash that was in it. 

But a few months ago my cousin wrote wanting to know if I’d ever thought about using a fountain pen. He had found one that he liked, a Pilot Metropolitan, which was supposed to be a good introductory pen at a reasonable price (under $15 at Amazon), and the thought of writing with a fountain pen intrigued me. 

I decided that I’d try one, just to find out if fountain pens were the same as I remembered or if they’d changed much since my high school days, and, after quickly searching Google, I discovered just how many fountain pens there are to choose from these days. 

There are pens made in Japan, pens made in Germany, and pens made in the United States and elsewhere. There are pens with cartridges and pens with converters, and there are so many choices for ink, more colors than in a rainbow, it seems. There are so many colors and pens, in fact, that it’s hard to keep track of them all. 

So, I started reading reviews, and I found a pen in my price range ($10) made by Pilot called Kakuno (which means “to write” in Japanese), and I ordered one, along with some extra cartridges.

After it arrived, I opened the packaging—surprised to find that the instructions were printed in Japanese—and, after figuring out how to insert the cartridge, I started writing. And … wow! 

It’s a pen, but it’s so much more than a pen!

I mean, looking at it, you’d think it’s just another writing instrument. The Kakuno shell is made of plastic, but it’s a perfect size that fits nicely in the palm of my hand, and holding it takes very little effort because it’s so light that when it’s in my hand and I'm writing, I hardly feel it unless I grip it too tightly. 

The moment I begin to write, it’s like magic: the ink flows onto the page, the blank page reaches up to embrace the pen, my hand moves effortlessly across the paper. It’s a moment of becoming, a moment of (please, excuse my enthusiasm) unexpected oneness with the universe, a zen-like immersion in the present.

It can take a while to feel comfortable using a fountain pen. But after experimenting a little with different angles and using it in different journals, I can say that writing with a fountain pen feels as natural (and effortless) as breathing. 

Why not add a little variety to your writing practice and try a fountain pen? It doesn’t have to be an expensive one. (You can find the Kakuno online for as little as $10 if you don’t mind  the color….and a plastic shell.) 

You might be surprised at how your writing—and your feelings about your writing—will change when you begin using one.

If you’re still undecided about whether to use a fountain pen, or just curious and want to read more about them and the people who find them attractive, here are a few links that you might enjoy: 

https://www.penheaven.co.uk/blog/top-5-reasons-to-use-fountain-pen/

https://blog.gouletpens.com/2018/09/6-writers-on-why-they-use-fountain-pens

https://luxipens.com/18-famous-authors-and-their-fountain-pens/

https://www.countrylife.co.uk/luxury/style/unparalleled-joy-writing-fountain-pen-five-beautiful-examples-175439

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/the-joy-of-fountain-pens

https://medium.com/@lancelotkirby/on-the-pleasures-of-writing-with-a-fountain-pen-3d95e8495550

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/26/style/fountain-pens.html

Keeping a journal

What do we discover when we sit down each morning to write in our journal? 

What draws us back to the page day after day?

And why do we keep filling up pages that we know may end up on our shelves or tucked away into drawers, never to be looked at again?

One reason we keep journals, I think, is to create proof that we exist, to announce, if only to ourselves, that we are here, alive, not an illusion or a figment of someone’s imagination. 

The marks that we make on the pages of our journals are evidence of our being here, now, in this moment.

Another reason, I suspect, is that writing helps us discover what we’re thinking in this moment, to put into words the thoughts that swirl through our heads, to enjoy the process of thinking, to take joy in following a thought wherever it might lead, whether to a dry gulley or to an overflowing riverbed.

If you’re like me, you want to feel that sensation again and again, to feel like a child gazing up at the sky and daydreaming as clouds pass by, to lose yourself in the play of words, in your imagination, in the flow of ink, the sound of a pen scraping the paper beneath your hand, each day hoping to discover something new, some part of the world or of yourself that you’ve never seen before.

Another reason why we keep journals, I’d guess, is to preserve a faithful record of what we might be thinking or feeling from day to day, week to week, year to year, so we can look back (if we ever decide to look through our journals) to see where we were and what we thought about and how we felt at a certain age or on a certain date.

Our journals can help us remember what life was like, how we might have solved a problem or failed in an attempt to do something new or to remember how we were feeling  during a challenging (or not-so-challenging) time in our lives. 

Keeping a journal is a little like saving photos or news clippings to aid in remembering so the record of our lives is a true and complete record, not merely a facade but the truth underlying our existence.

Why do we keep writing? What draws us back to the page?

Perhaps it’s simply the daily joy that writing brings, or the sense of identity the act of writing gives us. 

As long as we are writing—and continue to write—we are observing the world, exploring thoughts and feelings, learning something, which, when put into words, seems permanent and somehow resistant to the wind and change and the passage of time.

That’s every writer’s dream, I suspect, the secret wish each of us makes when we begin to write. 

We pray that the discoveries we make each day on paper will endure long after we’re gone, and for as long as the pages of our journals survive.

Connecting

As long as your pen or pencil is moving across the page, your fingers typing at the keyboard, your words flowing onto the screen or onto a piece of paper, you are connecting with a part of yourself that is hidden until the moment you tease it out with words.

It doesn’t matter if you’re writing poetry or prose, it’s the act of writing that matters, the challenge of opening your heart to the world so you (and others, if you decide to share what you’ve written) can know what’s there and can make a connection.

Call what’s in your heart the treasure beneath the sea or the pearls hidden within a shell that only you can find if you have the patience to dive deeply enough and pry the shell open with a stroke of your pen, a tap of the next key.

Whether you’re writing every day in a journal, starting a new project, or returning to a work-in-progress, you come to the page each day, if you’re like me, in the hope of connecting with the deepest part of your self, each word offering a chance to discover something new about yourself or your life that will help you understand how to live fully in each moment.

If you’re writing, you are connecting with the air you breathe, the sound of leaves rustling overhead, the taste of a peach on a warm summer day.

You are connecting with memories and with the people around you, with the feel of sea spray on your skin, with rain falling against your eyelids, with snowflakes tickling your lips and nose.

You are connecting with those you love who are no longer alive and with the person you once were and the person you are becoming.

No matter what you are writing, you’re connecting with each moment of life and with yourself as you experience life in all its mystery and beauty.

What’s so strange and wonderful about writing is the way the process reveals thoughts and emotions that you don’t always know you have until you see the thoughts and emotions expressed in the words that you write and which appear on the page in front of you like gifts from the sea.

Whatever you’re writing this morning or tomorrow or later this week, I hope you’ll persist and keep writing so you can find whatever you’re looking for.

I hope that you’ll make the connection with the deepest part of your heart so that you keep coming back to the page and learn more.

I hope you’ll keep writing and searching and exploring, and, after you’ve spent time writing, I hope you’ll look down at whatever you’ve written and discover what is most important to you.

Mostly, I hope you’ll take that first step… even if it feels like you're stepping into thin air... and find the treasure waiting for you.  

x

Fishing (For Words)

There’s a lake about two miles away from our house, and, after sitting at my desk all day, I felt the need to stretch my legs and decided to walk to the lake to enjoy the view and clear my mind.

So, I put a notebook and a few pens into a shoulder bag and went for a ramble, as they say in the UK.

At the lake a small wooden dock, maybe 20’ x 15’, with two benches and a waist-high railing, overlooks the water.

I had in mind to sit a while on one of the wooden benches, just letting the serenity of the place—the peacefulness of the water, the quietude of the woods—seep into me.

I’d open my notebook and wait for thoughts to arise that I might jot down.

The dock was empty when I arrived, and the water in front of me looked more like a sheet of glass smudged by dark charcoal than a mirror reflecting a bright blue sky until the sun emerged, spreading light across the water on the far side of the lake.

It was just after five o’clock. The park was empty except for a few dog walkers.

I sat on one of the benches, opened my shoulder bag, removed my notebook, and grabbed a pen.

Gazing out over the lake, I sat and watched the sunlight fall on the still water and waited for words.

A few minutes later, with no words to be found, I stood and went to the railing to gaze at the water in the hope I might find inspiration there.

Sometimes, at the edge of the dock, I’ve seen baby turtles poke their heads up to feed on weeds and fish leaping out of the water to capture flies.

Behind me I heard someone’s footsteps. A young girl’s red sneakers clomped on the wooden dock and echoed like drumbeats over the water.

Following her onto the dock was an older woman, not the girl’s mother but a neighbor, I learned, who was being pulled toward the railing by a small dog, a white and brown Shih Tzu.

The dog veered over to greet me, and I bent over to pet her.

“Coco’s friendly,” said the woman. “Don’t worry. She won’t bite.”

Coco was, indeed, friendly, and she welcomed my greeting when I leaned over to scratch the back of her neck. She even pressed her head against my ankle and happily wagged her tail.

The woman had let the leash run out and was standing a dozen feet or so away from where I was standing at the rail.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Fishing?”

I held up my pen so she could see what I was holding--a gel pen, not a fishing rod.

“Oh, writing!” she said. “A poem?”

“Whatever thoughts happen to come,” I said.

“A journal?”

“Yes.”

Coco pulled at the leash.

The sun was setting behind the clouds again.

The little girl clomped back across the dock toward the park, and the woman and Coco followed after her.

Once they left, the dock became quiet again, and a sense of peace (and possibility) rose off the water's surface.

I thought about the woman’s question.

I could have responded, “Yes.”

I could have replied, “I am fishing.”

But the idea came to me only after she left.

"Yes, I am fishing. Fishing for words.”

It's what a writer does.

I lowered my head, grateful for the reminder, and, as the words came, started writing this note.

Surfing on the Edge

What difference does it make how long it's taken you to reach the place on the page where you stopped work this morning?

If you enjoy the process of writing... if you take pleasure in the search for words and the challenge of arranging those words on paper... what's the rush?

It's the writing, after all, not the publication, that brings meaning to your life, right?

But if you've reached a point where you're no longer enjoying the process, or where you may be confusing writing with publishing or having a hard time finding meaning--finding the pulse--in your work, perhaps it's time to begin keeping a journal.

A journal is where you can go to be alone.

You don't have to write for anyone else but yourself. There's no striving for public recognition or desire to please an audience, no goal except to put words on a page.

It's just you and the page and the thrill of seeing words emerge from your pen and the mystery and wonder of how that works... how your mind can have thoughts and how those thoughts can make themselves known to you as words on a page.

Every time you open your journal and begin writing, you never know what will emerge. That's what can be so compelling about journal writing. It's as if you're writing the story of your life as it unfolds, keeping notes, making a record, offering proof that you were here, that you existed.

Journal writing isn't always about getting the story down on paper, although journal writing can help you figure out ways to better tell a story that's tying you into knots.

Sometimes it's just about your ability to capture thoughts as they enter your mind and shoot down your arm into your pen onto the page.

Sometimes it's pure joy... where there's no judgment and no attachment to the words and no critical eye to shape the words... and you just accept whatever comes and don't re-read or revise... you just write.

Journal writing is like surfing on the edge of a wave.

Or like diving deep and holding your breath until you touch the bottom.

Journal writing's all about that moment of possibility... when every word is filled with meaning... and your writing is perfect... and the words say what you want them to say... and your reader knows exactly what you want to say... even before you put the words down.

It's sheer joy, this kind of writing.

Yes, there's always the moment when you wake up and realize that writing takes more than this.

There's the moment after you finish your journal entry when you understand that the process of crafting words into meaning requires thought and reflection and consideration for how the words will be interpreted by another human being.

But before then, before that moment, you write in a surge of emotion.

Only afterwards do you go back and revise to make your meaning clear so the words reveal your heart and whatever's hidden inside your heart that you want to share.

You can't be afraid to reveal your heart in this business... because as soon as you give in to fear the words will dry up and you'll be left with nothing but a blank page and despair.

So, if you want to find the pulse in your writing, the deeper meaning in your work, open a journal and start writing.

It won't take long before you surprise yourself.

For more information on keeping a journal, visit:
http://www.writesite.org/html/journal.html
http://fmwriters.com/Visionback/Issue10/advjournal.htm
http://journaltips.blogspot.com/2006/11/heighten-five-senses-smell.html
http://www.wwnorton.com/rgguides/trailrgg.htm