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.

Out of thin air

Waiting for words

to appear on the page

my pen poised

above a blank

sheet of paper

like a heron

patiently watching

the water as smooth

as the surface of glass

for a sign of life--

the slightest ripple--

waiting for the perfect

moment to strike

and catch a surprised fish

in its beak.

My pen, too,

waiting for

the perfect moment

to strike

and catch

a word, surprised,

as it leaps

out of thin air

onto the page.

Sitting (aka BIC = Butt in chair)

You sit waiting for words, not knowing

where the words will take you, waiting for the adventure 

to begin, for the words to appear and lead you on a path 

you've never seen before.

You sit trusting the words will come

and the journey into the unknown will reveal

some truth, some deeper understanding of

what it means to be alive.

You sit trusting the pen in your hand, 

trusting that there's magic in the universe 

(that you can't explain), trusting that you are part of 

the magic spell that life weaves all around us.

You sit trusting that you'll find what

you need to keep going, to keep searching, 

to keep finding a reason to keep exploring 

wherever the words take you. 

Each day is like opening a book

Each day is like opening a book

and finding another poem

waiting for you

sunlight or clouds on the page

shadows or raindrops

the sound of the wind

the silence of snow falling

of clouds passing by

each morning a different poem

lighthearted or sad

a moody melody

a gleeful reprise

the moment you open your eyes

you can hear

the song of a new day

words filling your ears

sounds you never heard before

syllables that roll off your tongue

letters spilling onto the page

one after the other

a stream in flood

pulling you into the day

filling your lungs with air

with life, with gratitude

for whatever appears 

on the page

beneath your pen 

Unmoored

It's the beginning of the year

and I feel unmoored, unsure 

what direction to swim in.

Do you feel unmoored, too?

Here we are waiting for the wind 

to offer us a clue, treading water,

floating in place, befuddled by the way

uncertainty replaces certainty.

At the moment it's impossible 

to choose which way to go.

All paths have been erased,

all destinations hidden,

so how can we find the route 

we're meant to follow?

How long can we keep treading 

water before sinking to the bottom?

What is keeping us afloat?

Maybe it's all just a matter of allowing 

ourselves a chance to rest, 

to step out of the water,

to regain our strength. 

Maybe this is how to let the well fill up again?

Listen, it's the beginning of the year, 

and there's hope that a path will appear 

tomorrow or maybe the next day, 

and that we'll know what we didn't know 

a moment ago: the path we're meant to follow,

the way we're meant to go.

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.

Summer doldrums

sitting here

wondering what

to write

waiting for a breeze

carrying words

to my pen

staring at the blank

page the way

sailors must have

stared at the blank

unmoving sea

waiting for wind

to fill their ship's sails

waiting, waiting...

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.

This is the practice

So you sit waiting, listening to the silence of early morning,
and in the silence you can hear your breath, and in your breath
you can find the words you need to begin.

And the pen begins to move and thoughts unfreeze like flows of ice
breaking away from shore, slowly moving downstream, the current
taking you where you've never been before.

You have to trust your breath, trust your hand holding the pen moving
across the page, trust that the words will make sense later when you put
down your pen and return to read what you've written.

It's as if you are writing in a fog, a daze, a dream, not knowing what
the words mean, just accepting them--the sound of them, the shape of
them--as they spill and fall and tumble onto the page from your pen.

How you find the words or how the words find you is a mystery. Why
this word? Why these words in this order? It's all part of the process of
writing, of letting go, of observing without judgment whatever comes,
whatever life brings you.

This is the practice.

Savor the silence

Take a moment to breathe.
Just wait before touching
your pen to the page

and let the blankness
of the empty journal
wash over you

like the waves of the sea,
like the silence of an empty house,
like the pause between breaths.

Just listen for a moment to
how the white page, not yet
filled with words,

sounds like walking through
falling snow, and not a single
footprint marks a path

and the possibilities
of where you might go
are endless.

Take a moment to breathe,
to savor the silence of
the empty page.

Just wait before touching
your pen to the page,
and then begin...

Long Haul Revisions

Sometimes I think revising one’s work is all about letting go.

Like when you fly a kite and the wind pulls the string out of your hand and you have to let go (or get burned by the string) and you watch the kite flying off on its own?

That’s a little bit what revising feels like at the moment.

I’m feeling helpless to guide the characters. They're on their own now, like the kite, free-floating, each character guided by his or her own inner compass, not mine.

But I’m also feeling, after just a half-dozen revisions, that I’m a much more intent observer, trying to take everything in and get it on paper. 

It’s as if I’ve become a recorder of events as they unfold, a conduit, so to speak, for a story that’s happening inside my head as it spins itself out into the world line by line.

If I’m patient and willing to wait quietly—like a fisherman waiting for a fish to bite—I will eventually feel the tug on the hook and know that it won’t be long before I’ll learn something more about the story and the characters in it.

At the moment I’m printing out the latest batch of revisions for a manuscript that I started back in January.

I’m forging forward using one of my writing teacher’s methods of revising, which means that I’ll need to revise these pages in front of me at least 30 more times (thanks, Norma!) before I consider the manuscript finished (or decide if I need to revise for another 30 drafts).

Well, okay, thirty drafts may seem like a stretch--and sixty drafts, well, that's a bit mind-boggling at the moment--but if that’s what it takes, then I’m willing to aim for a high number of revisions, even though it’s daunting to think of revising the same pages that many times.

But here’s one of the surprises that I've learned over the past half-dozen revisions of this particular manuscript.

Revising over and over again is liberating!

The manuscript is still malleable, still a work-in-progress. It can change and grow.

And thinking about revisions in this way—revisions over the long haul—has taken a lot of the pressure off the process.

Instead of trying to shoo the manuscript out the door like a reluctant calf or puppy, I can take my time. I can give myself permission to look at each character with care. I can listen more closely to each character’s voice. I can better understand their struggles.

Until recently I hadn’t realized the manuscripts that I was shooing out the door earlier in my career were too young, too immature, for the world, unable to stand on their own.

In my head they were finished, but on paper they weren’t done and not quite ready to share with readers.

Long haul revisions may seem like a slow process, but, really, it’s just a process of taking the time it takes to get acquainted with my characters and to learn about them on a deeper level, to understand what’s going on beneath the surface of their lives.

This kind of long haul revising is also a process of waiting for characters to talk, to divulge their stories, to share their secrets, so the story itself expands and deepens in ways that I could never have envisioned if I’d stopped revising in an earlier draft.

Truths and lies slip out of their mouths, or they act in ways that I might never have expected. 

And these unexpected moments of discovery take the story on a path that I could never have predicted. They invest the story with life so the story becomes a living, breathing thing, no longer lifeless words on a page but a record of lives in the process of living, searching for answers, exploring the world, and finding… well, each character finds something different, unique to him or her.

Anyway, I’m enjoying the process of long haul revisions (even on days when I have no idea what will happen next or where the story might be going).

I hope you are finding ways to enjoy revising your work, too!

Sitting and Waiting

Are you willing to sit and wait for a while?

Are you prepared to sit and wait for more than a few hours a day, more than a few days a week, more than a few weeks a month, more than a few months a year?

Are you capable of sitting and waiting for more than a year?

If you’re not willing to sit and wait for your characters to reveal themselves to you—however long it might take—then how can you expect to write about their world?

One of my teachers told me long ago that she rarely wrote fewer than thirty drafts of a novel or short story. Thirty drafts! 

Sometimes that's just how long it takes.

So, when you finish one draft, or two, or even three, perhaps you’re only starting the process, and there’s more sitting and waiting ahead.

Writing requires patience. Not just the patience to sit and wait for words to come, but the patience to wait until a character is forthcoming and willing to open himself or herself up to you.

Your characters need to trust you, and they can sense your impatience, your doubts, your discomfort sitting and waiting. They can sense when you are afraid of their story, fearful of the truths that may emerge from their lives, reluctant to face the events they want to share with you, unwilling—or unable—to confront the challenges in their day-to-day existence.

If they sense the slightest hint of fear, uncertainty, or doubt, they will remain silent.

They may show you the surface of their lives, but they will withhold the deeper issues, hide the fissures that cause them pain, and conceal the cracks that reveal their need for love and acceptance.

If you can sit and wait, though, they may grant you a gift.

They may tell you who they truly are and how they live their lives and what they want and what they fear and what they’re willing to do for love.

They may give you the gift of a story.

Sometimes writing isn’t just about getting words on paper.

It’s about trusting and doubting, and about being afraid and being able to love, and about hoping and believing in a story that you can't yet see and in characters who you can't yet hear.

It’s about sitting.

And waiting.