I write because it’s my
rock,
church,
wrinkles,
pain,
loudest laugh,
amid deep doubt
on mornings when I’m convinced the birds are singing,
“scrap it, stick with vacuuming.”
Second chance,
even when revision and I aren’t getting along.
Need for risks,
such fun to throw terrible twists at my characters.
Addiction to curiousity
and what, where, when, why,
by the way, how the heck did my research lead to the story of the chef who made the world’s largest dumpling,
and then on to 10 synonyms for said
that I’ll delight in using way too many times.
Decisions,
as complex as Colorado weather
and a one word sentence.
Seeing through lotsa lenses,
each a chance to make metaphors,
as like
and like as.
One what if after what if,
navigating the creative mess I’ve made.
Commitment to writing The End.
Reminder to trust
and hope,
oh, please, may my 10 years of revising
90,000 words make some sense!
I admit, it’s often my desperate attempt to whittle, whittle away at a chunk of wood
seeking the perfect knot
that I want to sand, buff, stain,
repeat;
and often, it’s a return to my rebellious teen,
sneaking up the stairs after curfew
with secrets of my doings deep in my Levi’s pocket;
and often, it’s my science lab,
experimenting with wit,
but, ending up with the same result,
me laughing at my same corny ideas.
Raw truth,
much, much better than any mirror.
Every wee fear,
including those I haven’t met.
Pillow and blanket,
especially when I want to hide from characters that I can’t bear to inform:
“I don’t know if you would laugh or cry over this matter.”
Giddy childhood,
when my four brothers and I wrapped towels around our necks
and raced our bikes two miles to the public pool,
competing all day for the biggest cannon ball splash
and finding enough coins on the concrete to buy Baby Ruth’s and lemon drops.
Freedom,
flying down a mountain on my bicycle at 40 mph,
hearing only air,
only!
Tuner,
honing in on how-to’s,
like my character’s nervous habit,
or, whether she should whine, sigh or snicker.
Adrenaline rush,
when rarely, oh so rarely,
six sentences in a row,
flow,
flow,
as if my character is in charge.
Admission
to the humbling fact,
yes, my characters will lead,
if you would listen,
they’d love to whisper:
“Get your ego out of the way, god damnit!”
Shower,
making sure I scrub deep, bid farewell to the filth and start all over.
Challenge
that wakes, sparks and jests me,
like when I hide dark chocolate in the freezer,
yet, keep avoiding, avoiding
till I must have a bite,
and then, you know what happens next,
I eat the whole bar!
Shovel,
reminding me: dig up, dig up, dig up the muck,
more,
more,
because, beneath is the real stuff, THE story,
arriving at an unexpected reality sign:
“welcome to the story you never knew you were telling!”
My rescue crew,
always ready with a
hug,
wisdom,
feedback,
nudge,
prayer,
a plethora of ideas,
edits,
commas,
periods.
Fresh baked paper
just out of the oven,
ready for my pen to
dabble,
let go,
forgive,
say hello,
how are ya,
goodbye
to mom, dad, brothers, best buds.
Stories
I write,
because,
I always have.
Revision.