The Find

Where does your writing come from? Where does mine come from? This is an especially important question when we're feeling a sense of writer's block.

For a while I've felt I couldn't find poems anymore. So last night I sat down and thought about where I've literally been and what I've been doing. I let myself feel certain sadnesses I haven't been willing to embrace. And this was when I finally found my poems. I wrote and wrote last night. Here's just one, appropriately called "The Find."

The Find

To me, it is just
a cave— a bouldered space
held dark against this mountain.
To you, it opens
dreams of dragons, pink and green
as the dragon-scale shoes
I bought for you just yesterday,
knowing it would be too soon before
you came upon this place, only to find it had become
just a cave... an empty bouldered space.


At the Cave photo, by L.L. Barkat.

Because this photo tells a story, in my mind, I'm also offering it for Three From Here and There's Storytelling prompt...

Angel Blue Apple

One word. That's what we were asked to work with. In 60 seconds or less. Me, I added another dimension. One piece of art. So here's my poem, based on the word "apple." And as you can see, the apples in this collage are blue...

"The Picking"

Who knew the apple
would turn

blue. It was just
blushing towards

red when I said to
myself,

ah this is for you,
my angel.


Linda and the Apple Tree collage, by Gail Nadeau. Used with permission.

Next week's prompt: try doodling a poem. Which is just to say, put down random words and phrases while you listen to a sermon, lecture, dinner-table chatter, whatever. See if you can frame these random thoughts into a basic poem. Post your offering by Thursday, September 10, and drop your link in my comment box.

***PLEASE DON'T BE SHY about dropping your link here. These days, I can't keep up with visiting all of you in a timely manner and I could miss your offering if you don't give me your link. Thanks. :)

POETRY FRIDAY:
High Calling Blogs When Writing, Apples are Optional
Claire’s You Are Creation
nAncY’s space
Glynn’s Summer Light
Ed G’s Eyes of My Heart
Marcus's 60 Seconds About a Dead Gerbil
Monica's Cage
Norman's Worship Interrupted

Make Your Writing Happen

I'm pushing myself through writing the last three chapters of my book. Concerning this challenge, I was foolish enough to say to a writer friend, 'Well, you know, I can't force this thing.' To which my writer friend said in an annoyingly writerly way, 'Uh... yes you can.' (Advice here to the would-be writer. Don't make friends with people who know anything about writing if you want the freedom to sit on your writing butt and dip violets in sugar, or some other such thing, rather than finishing a project of consequence).

Truth is, you really can't force writing. It takes time to research, to process thoughts, to craft something as lovely as a sugared violet. And, truth is, you really *can* force writing. You've got so much in that head of yours already; you don't have to read one more ancient monk on the 'art of submission' (I'm talking to myself here now, which is a healthy writer behavior). Sometimes it's about altering expectations. Or trusting what you already have to offer. It's about putting away the violets and pulling out the keyboard.

Like right now. I am not inspired to write a poem. I don't want to do it. Truly, I'd prefer to translate French poetry (a new passion), but I am going to prove to myself that a person can *make* writing happen. It may not end up being my best shot, but here goes, based on last week's prompt...

'Holy Writ'

I spied God
meddling with
my keyboard,
skipping from
a to z like He
was some kind
of Alpha and
Omega who
could ply a
whole world,
ex nihilo, presto,
from the chaos.

1600's Books photo, by L.L. Barkat.

POETRY FRIDAY:
High Calling Blogs' Apophasis, or the Power of 'Not'
Monica’s His Delight, His Applause
Mom2Six’s Connecting
Sara's Before it Was Gone
Laura's Red and yellow...
Deb's The Verse
Joelle's Sacred Heart Abbey
Erica's Silver Coin
Simple Country Girl's I Spied God...

Blogging is a First-Aid Kit

I wake to a Monday I think I understand. School the kids. Do the laundry. Pick up the co-op delivery from our neighbor. Blog. Play the flute, maybe cello too. Make dinner. Read before bed. Lights out.

Then I get the email.

Just checking to make sure you're set to speak tomorrow.

TOMORROW?! TOMORROW?! By what disaster of administrative fall-through-the-crackishness did this occur? No time to answer the question. Must write, all day. Must have something to say.

And so I sit. Type. Daydream. Two pages. Sort the whites. Dry the brights. Sit. Type. Three pages, four pages, five pages, six pages. Fold the darks. Eight pages, nine pages, ten pages, plus the prayers. Forget dinner. Leftovers rule.

Who knew? Blogging is a first-aid kit. It used to take me five weeks. Yes. Five weeks to prepare a talk of this magnitude and depth. Especially on a passage like Romans 14-16. But, over two years of blogging later, it has come to this...

Just checking to make sure you're set to speak tomorrow.

'Sure. I'm set. For over two years I have:

- blogged 1-3 times weekly, increasing my speed and basic writing skills
- archived a set of anecdotes and quotes, easily searchable and cut-and-pastable
- processed these anecdotes and quotes with a community of smart, funny, compassionate people
- been forced to focus my writing to meet the goal of a 250-ish-word post (okay, every so once in a while I push the outer limits of this, but not much)
- learned to accept imperfection and half-done-ish-ness (within a certain standard of acceptability)'

Sometimes people ask me, 'How do I become a better writer?' From now on I might just say, 'Why not blog? Especially in short posts. 'Cause blogging is a first-aid kit.'

[UPDATE: the talk transcript]

RELATED:
Marcus Goodyear's 12 Things I've Learned Through Social Media and Blogging

LL ELSEWHERE:
Just Plane Faith, at the High Calling.org

Dora Bandaids photo by L.L. Barkat.

Find a Poem, Pick it Up

Will I...

Will I ever...

Will I ever write a poem again?

These are the anxious thoughts that plague me when it's been a while since I've found a poem. I say found a poem, because in essence this is what happens to me. Poetry is not something I can force. Indeed, I cannot force deep writing of any kind (okay, so I should remember this now that I am stuck, again, on my next chapter in God in the Yard.)

Instead, my deep writing happens kind of like this... mystery, open spaces (mentally), serendipity, inspiration, illumination, resolve.

Just for example, I have no idea exactly where Alteration Found came from yesterday. It is, at some level a mystery. But then I kind of DO know where it came from.

I had been at the pool, reading John Poch's book Two Men Fighting with a Knife. I especially liked a poem Poch wrote to his neurosurgeon. I found myself lost in its rhythms. I felt inspired. Was it not serendipitous that I was reading Poch on the same day that my Littlest just didn't talk in the car (a miracle of miracles, giving me mental open spaces)? And was it not also serendipitous that I had been reading about the brain and its structural changes, in another book I brought to the pool: Mozart's Brain and the Fighter Pilot?

As I began toying with words, illumination followed. Some of my thoughts were sounding familiar... like a Shakespeare poem. I resolved to look the particular poem up when I got home, and to play off that poem with my own unique words... in another act of resolve— the resolve to capture a half-there poem before it could get away.

And thus I found my poem. And now I am wondering...

Will I...

Will I ever...

Will I ever write a poem again?


STONE CROSSINGS:
Mark Goodyear's A Good Book About Grace

RELATED TO THIS POST:
I Ignore My Family to Read Poetry


Two Men Fighting with a Knife photo, by L.L. Barkat.

A Muse Meant

Last year, when I was doing a SoulPerSuit bible study with Erin, she asked me to share about my muse. So this week, when my publisher asked me to write a post in response to one of their editor's posts over on Behind the Books, I remembered some of what I told Erin so long ago...

A Muse Meant

How about you? Who, or what, is your muse?


Blond-Haired Doll photo, by Sonia.

NEWS ON CHARITY:

Concerns for Prayer