Hide and seek

Where do you look 

for poems, for stories,

where do you find the words 

you need to write,

where are they hiding, waiting 

for you to discover them?

It's like playing a game 

of hide-and-seek, isn't it?

You search inside your journal, between 

the blank pages, hoping to find them there,

or you look inside the barrel of your pen

wondering if they're concealed there,

or you examine the book you're reading

to see if they might have gotten lost in its pages,

or you look outside your office window on the chance

they might be floating like clouds in the air

and all you need to do is

reach out and grab them,

or maybe they went for a ride on the wings

of the crows cawing above the roof

and you just have to wait

for them to return,

or maybe they're like beads on a string

wrapped around your wrist

only you can't see them until

you reach for your pen and open your journal 

and begin moving your hand across the page 

like this.

And you wonder at the miracle

The poems come in bursts

like gusts of wind

or a sudden rain shower

words spilling onto the page

coming from who knows where

your heart, perhaps,

or some other place

inside you

that's kept under lock and key

inaccessible 99% of the time

except on those days

when without knowing how

without understanding why

the key finds its way

into your hand and

you can unlock the box

and watch the page

beneath your pen

fill with words--

words you didn't expect

you'd ever find inside yourself

and you inhale a breath

and exhale words

and by the time

you take another breath

the wind has died down

the shower has ended

the box is locked again

and you wonder 

at the miracle

you just experienced--

the magic of poetry,

the mystery of words.

How do you know what to write?

Questioner: How do you know what to write?

Wordswimmer: You don't know before you begin.

Q: Don't you plan ahead?

W: Sometimes. But you still don't know how your plan will turn out once you begin.

Q: There's no formula?

W: No. Just the blank page and your pen.

Q: And you just begin?

W: That's right. Let your hand start moving. See where it takes you.

Q: Like this?

W: Like this. 

Q: You didn't know we'd be having this conversation, did you?

W: I never imagined it, no, not until the pen started moving.

Q: And you found my question waiting for you?

W: Right. The question appeared.

Q: And then what?

W: I responded, and it turned into an interview, of sorts.

Q: You didn't even know I existed?

W: You don't. Except in my imagination.

Q: This is writing?

W: Yes, this is writing.

Q: You never know what will come?

W: No, never. It's what makes writing so challenging... I almost wrote treacherous.

Q: Treacherous? How?

W: Not knowing what you'll write. So you never know what you'll find on the page. And you need to lower your guard. To be open, vulnerable. Treacherous in the sense that what you write might surprise and even hurt you.

Q: But you write anyway?

W: Yes, of course.

Q: Why?

W: To find out what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling. To take pleasure in the process of discovery, to dive into a world I didn't know existed before I started writing.

Q: A world inside you?

W: Yes, but also a way of looking at the world inside and out.

Q: You just write what you see?

W: What I see and feel and think and imagine. There are so many ways to make connections. Memories. Experiences. And then to try and figure out how to make sense of these connections.

Q: That's writing?

W: Yes, that's writing.

Q: No wonder why you love it and write every day.

W: You never know what you'll find when you begin. 

Q: It's all part of the mystery?

W: Yes, that's it. You feel connected to the mystery of life in a different way when you're writing, when you're holding a pen or pencil in your hand, or when you're typing on the keyboard.

Q: Connected to what exactly?

W: It's hard to describe. Connected to life, I guess, on a deeper level. To who you are. To a spirit, if you want to call it that, inside you but also guiding you, if that makes sense.

Q: Maybe, I'm not sure. Is it like praying?

W: Well, kind of. 

Q: I guess I'll just have to pick up a pen and start writing. 

W: Yes, see what happens. 

Q: Maybe I will. 

W: Good luck!

Q: You, too!

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.

Poems in the making

Poems in the making

forming lines word by word

watching stanzas

take shape

beneath my hand,

the process a mystery

never knowing what

will come next

writing as an exercise

in perpetual surprise.

Every morning

Every morning I come into my office,

sit down at my desk, record the date and time,

and for thirty minutes, sometimes longer, 

I open my journal, select a pen, and write.

The first words, the first thoughts,

sometimes play hide-and-seek,

wanting to sleep a few more minutes

before playing on the page,

shy, perhaps, about revealing themselves,

or still sleepy, unsure if they're

ready to begin.

Once the pen touches the paper

and a spot of ink appears

beneath it on the page,

those words and those thoughts

gain courage and strength

and begin to race each other

onto the page to see who will be

the first to appear, 

flowing like a stream,

gaining momentum and force,

like a river merging with the sea.

Each word another drop of water,

the letters like sea spray

released by waves crashing

onto the shore,

rivulets forming in the sand

as the tide retreats.

You can feel your breath

ebbing and flowing

at the beginning

and end 

of each line,

leaving diamond crystals

glittering on the sand,

and shells you've never seen before

waiting to be picked up

and carried away.

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...

What Happens When You Mix Ink and Paper

It’s the kind of morning when I don’t think I have anything to write. 

I don’t feel any need to say anything new. 

I feel empty, in fact. 

Yet here I am sitting at my desk waiting and wondering what I might find on the page today.

It’s just ink and paper, yet there is a kind of magic that happens when you mix the two together. 

You can’t predict what might happen. 

The moment the nib of your pen touches the page—whoosh!—something percolates inside your brain, and your curiosity is aroused, and you wonder what will emerge from the other side of your consciousness. 

So you write to find out.

Maybe it’s a memory that you pull from a far-away time in your life. 

Maybe it’s a dream that haunts you after opening your eyes. 

Maybe it’s just the sight of sunlight falling through the window as you get out of bed. 

Maybe it’s nothing more than the sound of your breath or the sound of your pen scratching the surface of the page. 

Or maybe it’s just the feel of your chest rising and falling and the pulse of your heart beneath that reminds you of the waves of the sea and how you’re part of a universe extending beyond where you can see.

And so your pen takes you to places you might have missed if you hadn’t decided to sit down to write. 

That’s the thing about writing. 

It’s a mystery tour of the inner workings of your mind and heart. 

You never know where you’re going until you get there.

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.

Pulled by an invisible undertow

How can I keep writing,

keep exploring the world

with my pen?

How can I keep the process going

with joy, with excitement, with

hope for the discoveries to come,

even when the unknown--

the not knowing what comes next--

feels overwhelming?

What keeps drawing me back 

to the page every morning,

even when my head feels empty,

my brain blank? 

Why do I sit at my desk

even when thought--when thinking--

feels like a twisted rubber-band

that's been tied into knots?

Why don't I stop, 

put down my pen,

and close my journal

when I feel the tension building

in my shoulders and neck?

But, no, even then 

I still come to the page,

pen in hand,

pulled by some

invisible undertow,

and write.

I write just to see,

perhaps,

what words 

will come today.

I write just to see

what wisdom,

if any,

I will find

inside myself

to inspire my pen

to keep writing.