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.

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

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.

You need to sit listening to the silence

You need to sit listening to the silence, 

staring at the blank page, 

waiting for words to come, 

for letters to form beneath your pen.

You need to be patient, 

to stop rushing, 

to stop forcing the pen to write 

what it's not yet ready to write.

You need to sit in silence, 

listening to the silence, 

letting the silence wash over you.

You need to embrace the silence, 

welcome it, 

accept it, 

understand that all 

you're able to hear today

is silence, 

and that's ok

You need to know 

writing doesn't come 

with any guarantees.

You need to know 

words are shy, 

often fickle, 

afraid of committing themselves 

to paper.

You need to know 

it's not a sin 

to leave the page blank, 

to sit in silence, 

to listen to silence, 

to rise in silence ... 

without writing a word. 

On days like this 

you need to have faith 

the words will come 

and the ink will flow 

and your hand will move again

and you'll hear a voice in the silence --

just not today.

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.

Reaching for words

Each morning you reach for words 

without knowing where to look 

like a blind man pawing the air 

hoping to find something to hold onto,

something to let you know where you are, 

something to guide you, 

and you keep moving your pen 

hoping the words will come and show 

you the way you need to go, 

even when you don't know where 

to go or if you need to go anywhere.

It's like drilling for oil or searching for water.

You keep searching not knowing if you'll find

what you're looking for, what you're hoping 

to find, so you keep moving your pen

across the page hoping if you write 

enough words you'll discover what you've 

been searching for, hoping the words 

will reveal a path you didn't see before, 

hoping you'll have the strength 

to follow the path.

Time and Patience

Writing takes time 

and patience. You wait 

for words, hoping they'll come 

from wherever they come and 

fill the page with whatever 

is hidden in your heart.

Some days they find their way 

to the page; some days the page 

remains blank. You can't know 

ahead of time what you'll find or 

what might appear.

Some days it's like playing 

hide-and-seek: I see you. 

No you don't. Catch me if you can! 

And what you wish you'd written 

remains just beyond your reach, 

still wordless, waiting for another time 

to reveal itself to you.

And so you keep writing, waiting,

hoping whatever is hidden in

your heart will fill the page 

with words.

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.  

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.

Waiting to be remembered

How many memories
are hidden inside
your heart,
nearly forgotten,
waiting to be remembered,
to be shared
like photographs from
an old album?

How many times
will you sit down
to write
with a blank page
in front of you
and a pen in your hand
thinking you have nothing
to say?

And how many times
will you touch
the page
with the tip of your pen
and see the ink
begin to flow
into words
and suddenly
remember
what you had forgotten?

What will you write?

What will you write about
in the days ahead?

The future is unknown
blank pages waiting
to be filled.

You can't know ahead of
time what words will come
or if they'll come at all.

You can't know if you'll
be able to break through
the wall of silence

or if you'll be trapped
unable to speak,
your voice not even
a whisper.

You can't know what
you don't yet know.

You only know what's
in your hand now--
the pen you're holding
the paper beneath your hand
the shadow of the pen
moving across the page.

Whatever words appear
from whatever source
they flow out of,
however they emerge,
will reveal what you
know and what
you don't know.

The future will unfurl
from the present, just
as the present unfurls
from the past.

You will only know
what you'll write about,
looking back, after
you have written.

If you stay in bed

This morning I lay in bed before
the alarm went off wondering about
the shape of my day and what would
happen if I didn't go to my desk to
write before doing anything else.

It was the first time in months
that I thought about switching
my routine.

I lay there thinking
I don't have anything to say,
so why bother to get up and
sit at my desk with pen in hand
waiting for words that will never come?

But then my alarm went off and
out of habit I went to my desk
and sat down and took a pen in hand
and opened my journal to a blank page
and found the words waiting there
I couldn't see while lying in bed.

Maybe I'm just inherently lazy?

Or maybe it's just an illusion,
and you can't see it as an illusion
(that's the nature of an illusion)
until you get out of bed?

Or maybe writing comes down to habit--
a routine, a reminder to sit at your desk,
a need to find, through the familiar,
what's not yet known?

You don't know what you'll write
until you pick up your pen and begin.

If you stay in bed or go for a walk
instead of sitting down to write,
you'll never know what words are
waiting to give themselves to you.

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...

Wondering About Words

On some mornings I sit down to write wondering where words come from and, if they come, why they come to me or to anyone else, really.

I wonder if words come from some secret place hidden beneath our feet—somewhere deep under the earth, perhaps?— or from somewhere high above, way beyond the clouds, way beyond the moon and the stars?

I wonder if words are simply invisible until they appear on the page, which is the reason why we can’t see them floating through space like foreign objects that come to earth carrying a message from another planet sent especially to us.

I wonder how we find the words we need to express what’s hidden in our hearts, words that describe the mix of thoughts and feelings swirling inside us.

I wonder if maybe it isn’t that we find words but that words find us, as if we’re magnets that can draw to us the words we need to help us explain how it feels today or how it felt yesterday to inhabit this body, to dive into the unknown not knowing what we’ll find, just hoping words will appear to help us understand what we need and who we are and where we belong.

I wonder every morning — or whatever time of day I sit down to write — if the page is really blank or if it’s filled with words I can’t yet see and which only come into being the moment I begin writing. 

I wonder if words are inside us, locked in some mysterious storehouse, and how we’re supposed to find the key, and then I wonder if words are all around us, waiting for us to catch them, how a writer is born with a net in his or her hand to capture them like butterflies before they get away.

I wonder about words which flow on some days like a steady stream and on other days like a trickle and I wonder how on other days there's nothing more than a dry creek bed where words once flowed.

I wonder how words became as much a part of our lives as the water we drink, the

air we breathe, and equally necessary for our survival.

I wonder why we wait and wait and wait, never knowing if anything will appear on the page in front of us, until one day a word appears… and then another.

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!