Not knowing how or why

A morning of starts and stops

of false beginnings

of missteps

trying to find my footing

on a path I can’t see

working through silence

hoping to hear a voice 

deleting more words

crossing out full sentences

beginning again

stopping

starting over

all futile efforts to find

a path leading

somewhere—

but where?

trusting the process

that I’ll find what

I need if I keep writing 

keep my pen moving

across the page

keep collecting words

not yet knowing which I’ll save

and which I’ll discard

waiting for the light to go on

for a path to appear

not knowing how or why

but persisting

through doubts, uncertainty

through not knowing

until the end suddenly appears

and there’s the light at the end of the tunnel—

shimmering, growing brighter—

the beacon I was searching for

there all along

waiting for me to find it

A writer’s prayer of gratitude

Thanks to the Divine Source of words where all words begin their journey into the world.

Thanks for the desire to write and for the imagination that reveals what I can’t see with my eyes alone.

Thanks for the curiosity to explore the world and the courage to embark on a journey into the unknown each time I pick up a pen.

Thanks for the strength to keep going even when I feel lost, and for the support of friends and family when things appear hopeless.

Thanks for words that find their way onto the page, and for the pen in my hand and the ink that fixes the words to paper.

Thanks for the paper and for the pages that I’ve filled with words over the years, never knowing what will come next or if anything will come at all.

Thanks for the new understanding that comes with each word, and for the thrill of discovering something I didn’t known before I began writing.

Thanks for the patience to sit with silence and for the determination to keep going.

Thanks for the hope that words can help us heal and bring us closer together.

Thanks for the pure joy of feeling my hand moving across the page and the sight of words that didn’t exist a moment ago.

Thanks for the proof that I am here each day, ink flowing from my pen, gratitude flowing from my heart.

Thanks for each word that brings me closer to the Divine Source of words where all words begin their journey into the world.

Listen closely

You need to listen closely

to what’s in your heart

even if you can’t always

understand the language

it’s speaking.

You can feel it beating

in your chest, just beneath

your ribcage, pulsing

with life, with words

that flow onto the page

like an endless running

stream, 

like ice melting off the mountain

filling the page with

what you need to hear

just the softest of sounds, 

nearly inaudible on some mornings,

sounds you can’t always decipher, 

on some days just silence

flowing through your pen

leaving no marks on the page,

while on other days 

a rush of words,

a wave, a tsunami of words

that nearly carries

your pen away,

that’s almost impossible

to contain on the page,

words spilling

overflowing

washing over you

leaving you soaked to the skin 

your pen exhausted in your hand, 

your heart content, 

grateful for each word.

—

Letting go

I remember sitting at my desk years ago, alone in my college dorm room, staring at the typewriter’s unmoving keys beneath my fingers and the blank paper in front of me.

I kept wondering where the words were hiding.

I didn’t understand yet—it took years to understand— how writing works. 

How the words won’t come until I begin typing or writing, moving my hand across the page, pressing my fingers on the keypads.

Words are shy. 

They need to be coaxed out of hiding. 

They need to be teased gently into the light. 

They’ll refuse to reveal themselves until you begin moving your hand. 

Once you make that commitment and draw the first letter of the first word, writing becomes like breathing.

You take a breath, then another breath, and the next letter, the next word, will follow.

Let go of expectations.

Let go of what you think you should write.

Let the words come in whatever way they want to come. 

Remember you can always revise the words after they’ve made their way onto the page. 

Start by moving your hand. 

Allow yourself to believe in the mystery, the not knowing where the words might take you. 

Trust the words to know the path they need to take, and follow the words to wherever the path leads you.

Let yourself be surprised. 

Stand aside. (Hint: Get out of the way.)

And open yourself to whatever gifts your pen brings you. 

How trust works

How trust works:

you take a deep breath

pick a pen

open your journal

and begin writing

not knowing what

you'll discover

before you put

your pen to paper

trusting words 

will appear

trusting the process 

of how one word 

will lead you 

to the next

trusting you'll find

what you're looking for

before you reach

the end of

the page 

How do you go deep?

How do you go deep

and dive into places

that might hurt or

feel uncomfortable?

How do you feel

your way past pain

to a new understanding

of what's causing you

to shy away?

How do you listen

for words you can't

yet hear?

How do you write

despite uncertainty 

and doubt?

How do you admit

what you don't know

and keep writing day after

day to push past ignorance?

How do you learn

what you need to learn?

How do you keep going?

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.

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. 

—

 

Working on revisions

How do you know when you're finished revising your manuscript?

After the second or third pass, it's easy to believe that you're done. 

You've revised verb tenses and word choices. You've caught typos. You've polished each sentence until it shines like polished silver. 

But are you really done?

If you're working with an editor who you can trust, you can share the manuscript and listen to feedback. 

It's the same with a writing group. If you trust the other writers in the group--and why would you be in a writing group you don't trust?--you listen to their feedback.

If you prefer to work on your own, though, you have a slightly different challenge, which is, ultimately, the same challenge that every writer must face.

You need to listen to your inner voice, which can be deceptive at times.

You need to keep digging, keep asking yourself what's missing. 

What am I forgetting? What does the reader need in this moment? What does my character want, and what's keeping him or her from getting it? And what does he or she do to reach his or her goal?

To answer these questions, you may have to put your manuscript in a drawer for a while. 

A day, a week, or more. 

That's how you can gain distance and change your perspective.

That's how you can return to it with a clearer eye and see gaps or missing pieces that you couldn't have seen when you were so close to it, working on it from the inside, so to speak.

Each time you revise your manuscript, you need to see it the way a reader will see it. 

How might your words strike a reader? What images and scenes will make the greatest impact?  Why does the plot unfold the way it does?

Working on revisions in this way becomes a process of listening more carefully and looking more closely so that you (and ultimately your reader) are able to slip inside your characters and can feel what they're feeling. 

As you keep reviewing the manuscript, you're listening for inconsistencies, for the gaps that you couldn't see on the previous pass, for the issues that you can expand or delete.

The secret is patience. 

Give yourself time.

As many writers have discovered: "Time is the best editor." 

What you need to do

You need to arrange your life

so that being able to write

is your first priority

(and being able to read

your second).

You need to set aside time

without feeling guilty

you're not earning

a living.

You need to let yourself

enjoy writing... and not 

disparage the process

because nothing comes

of the words you 

put on paper

today.

You need to sit

and think regardless

of what others think

you should be doing,

to daydream, to follow

wherever the path

leads you.

You need to stop trying

to control the process,

to open your heart

and look inside

without flinching

or turning away.

You need to let yourself

feel whatever emotion

you need to feel, to resist

doubt, fear, uncertainty,

to ignore the voice

in your head telling 

you that you have

nothing to say,

nothing of worth

to offer,

no reason to pick up

your pen

or that you're not

smart enough

or imaginative enough

or brave enough.

You need to savor

each day, each moment,

the pen moving across the page

the ink leaving marks behind,

evidence that you are here--

living, breathing,

alive.

 

You can't know how or why

You can't know

how or why

you can only know

what you know

the feel of the pen

in your hand

the scrape of the nib

on paper

the smoothness of

a blank page

the joy of seeing

the page fill

with words

ink flowing onto

the page

your hand rushing

to keep up

with your thoughts

that feeling of

wishing you could

stay in this place

forever

writing

feeling a connection

with something larger

than yourself

a part of the universe

inside you

that you touch each time

you hold a pen

and move your hand across

the page

like plugging 

into your heart

like hearing

the song

your soul

sings

like praying

to God

and knowing 

God is there

listening

Full steam ahead

Full steam ahead

you mustn't look back

no glancing over your shoulder

at the pages you've written

or the days that came

before this one

eyes front

even though you can't see

what's coming 

you must step into the unknown

with hope

with faith 

it will all fall into place

even if you don't know how

(you never know how)

but here we are again

writing

filling the blank page

(how wonderful is that?)

still not knowing 

where the words come from

or how they find their way 

onto the page

they just do

guided by an invisible hand

an angel, perhaps, 

watching over you

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.

Listening for words

Listening for words

waiting for a voice

to whisper in my ear

hoping I'll recognize

it when I hear it--

if I hear it--

not knowing what

to expect

sitting in anticipation

of something

(but what?)

not knowing anything

more than the

blank page

and the pen in

my hand

poised over the page

waiting to hear

what I've never heard before

praying I'll be able to

catch the words

with my pen

and bring them

to the page

like pearls

drawn from

the depths

of the sea.

Just a glimmer

You reach a point when your mind goes blank 

like a blackboard that's been erased, 

only chalk dust clinging to the board 

but no words,

and you stare into the blankness

wondering where the words went

and if you’ll ever find them—

if they’ll ever appear again,

and suddenly a word—or the shadow

of a word—appears

just a glimmer

but you see it and grab hold and

suddenly it’s like pulling open

a flood gate you didn’t even

know was there 

and the words come spilling onto 

the page again, splishing and splashing, 

words that only moments ago were hidden, 

invisible, nowhere to be found.