S.E. Reichert's Blog, page 9

Transcendence and Indifference

Sometimes on this blog I talk about writing. Sometimes, I talk about books and poetry, and creativity. I’m going to dip my toes in deeper waters this week, and I hope you’ll join me. I’ve been reading some really interesting books lately. Some of them fiction, some of them philosophy, but all exploring different aspects of perspective, experience, and this strange little existence we’re all trapped in.

Particularly, I’d like to talk about transcendence. Seems pretty hippy-dippy, yeah? Like only those on a first name basis with insanity or theistic religion (one and the same?) may reach this state. Those have been the acceptable formats to use in our ‘modern’ and indifferent current culture to reach transcendence. But what if, every human has the capacity to reach it? And why would we?

Well, ironically, I’m going to ask you how detached you are from technology these days. (I get it, you’re reading this blog–I appreciate your momentary attachment to my words, I hope they do you more good than harm). In our society, indifference, disconnect, and relativism have all formed a trifecta of creating a malaise of ingratitude and apathy. Whoa! Big words, nerd, tone it down…

Okay, so we live in a virtual world most of the time, rarely face to face. We are disconnected from the smaller, more real worlds of our surroundings. When we are face to face, we’re bombarded with the cultural effects of making EVERYTHING meaningful and important so that, nothing really is. We are more concerned with being seen than being known. We contain our worth in ‘like’ counts and ‘views’. We’re overwhelmed with information, but often that information is sensationalized and skewed, so the depth with which it affects us if often akin to a kiddie pool full of mostly piss…. What I’m saying is that our world has shortened our attention spans and hardened our hearts. And that’s a poor state to be in if you want to experience transcendence.

Why do we need to? We don’t. We could live our whole lives without having it. Some of us will. But as a creative, a writer, and a person who gives a damn about the world, transcendence translates to the interconnection of ideas and thought, the loss of self, the exaltation and delight of being truly present in a moment AND simultaneously interconnected with all moments. It helps writers and artists see connections and solve problems. It’s like having both hemispheres of your brain working at the same time.

In the modern world, people are addicted to the feelings of transcendence (joy, exaltation, elation, ecstasy, a disconnect from their lives) and many find it… often through drugs, or alcohol, or falling in love on repeat. Constantly punching tickets for these roller coasters of chemical highs, and depressive lows…Short term gains with long term consequences. It’s the equivalent of taking the gondola up the mountain but not really appreciating the view at the top the same way someone who climbed the mountain does.

See, transcendence (the magical lapse, the alpha state, the eureka moment, the disconnect from our small selves) comes from putting in time. Time on your craft, investment in your art. It comes after working through problems, working past failures and over obstacles. It means letting go of your ego in favor of discipline, to have intense attentiveness to the world around you (not an easy thing to do in the era of the internet), patience, and observation…curiosity. Hands on work, and hours in the seat. It certainly can’t come if AI is writing your story for you.

It probably comes as no surprise that, in our era of entitlement, transcendence is rarely a thing experienced. No one wants to work hard enough to the point that the work becomes the ease. And the process becomes, in itself, a meditation. Building a bridge between our analytical brain and our inspirational intuition takes time, and practice. It takes silence, and contemplation. It takes noticing the world around you. And this isn’t just experienced in writing or artistic endeavors. As a martial artist I’ve understood that its only through intense repetition, years of practice, curiosity and humility on the floor do I attain precise and sharp motion when it is called upon. (Slow to flow, flow to speed, speed to power, power to grace.)

So how do we recapture it? How do we overcome the indifference and work towards this genuinely life-altering experience? I urge you to take pause from the instantaneous solutions and gratifications in your life. Climb more mountains. Do things the hard way. Stop thinking that focused time is a waste, and give yourself a gift of singular-tasks. Don’t give up when things are muddy or unclear. Don’t be afraid to fail, but go on, steadily up that mountain. Practice your craft, even when it means writing your synopsis or your back cover blurb, or that query letter…those are part of the journey. When you skip things, you miss out on more neural connections. More neural connections will lead to “Aha!” moments. Use your goddamn brain and don’t let the screen think for you. Get out of your echo chambers. Meet new people. Take an unrelated class. Read something you wouldn’t normally.

Why bother? Because human experience and potential is fading, right before our eyes. It’s being replaced by a strange and candy-coated lie. A shadow of what we are capable of. Our lives are being played out behind filtered photos and 25 second reels. And that life experience is no place to create from. Dig deeper. Give a damn about your short and beautiful trip. Make it count.

From Beneath A Pile of Tissues

Good morning, Gentle writers.

I hope that this blog finds you well and in good health. Over the weekend, I acquired a…virus? And what had planned to be an ambitious weekend, filled with a long-run in preparation for a half-marathon, finishing up my latest Vella, and reworking my two-act play, became the sad potato of me huddled in bed. I don’t get sick often. Certainly not the kind of sick that forcibly dunks me beneath the unconscious depths of two-hour naps. I get frustrated when my body does this. At one point, I even took my laptop to bed, determined that I could let my body rest and my mind could still function.

Brains don’t like fevers. That’s what I’ve learned. And the longer and stronger that fever, the lest coherent I was. My brain got frustrated with me. It quickly became apparent, right before I was knocked in the head by the flu-fairy with a large sleepy stick, that nothing I wrote in that state would be worth a damn. So…I put my life aside and gave myself the permission to sleep.

Sounds silly, huh? Just sleep when you need to sleep, you don’t need “permission”! But when you’re a mom, and a woman, and a go-getter, and a do-er…it’s about the hardest thing in the world to grant yourself. Especially to do it guilt free. I lost space and time and the kids were just fine. The laundry still got done, the world did not fall apart. How little grace we give ourselves to rest, I thought, in between workshops of unconsciousness.

Know the best part? Besides the tripped out dreams (holy revisiting of homework-being-late paranoia)? I realized how much I really fucking love sleep. I realized how little of it I actually get in my day to day. I realized that I average about 4 hours a night. And that’s maaaaaybe not enough. I realized that after a day of sleeping, the twenty minutes of writing I did get at night was a lot easier to do.

So here’s my advice for the week. Don’t discredit sleep as a writer and a creative. You may be a super lark or a tenacious night owl, but if you’re not getting in the repair work that only sleep can do, not only will you likely catch more colds, but your brain won’t be its wrinkliest. And a wrinkly brain is a…is a…where was I going with this? *checks temp…feels sleepy* The point is, rest helps you rebuild, it also lets your brain play and take a few hours off of the stupid demands of reality. Play for a brain, translates to creativity and more writing for us.

I’m going to go blow my nose and take a nap. Take care of yourselves and I’ll *yawn, sniffle* see you next week.

A Super Secret Guide to Finishing Your Damn Book. Part Three: The Down and Dirty of Feeding Your Creation to The Wolves of the World

Hello, gentle writer, thanks for surviving that title up there…ahem. Let’s chat, shall we?

I suppose it goes without saying that after you’ve written your book and streamlined it into a gleaming beacon of fine-as-hell storytelling, you could easily stop reading this blog. You may even wish you could. But there is one more thing I’m going to need you to do…

Resist the urge to tuck that book safely away in a drawer.

Unless of course, all you want for your book is for it to sit on the dusty shelves of your den and no other eyes need apply. That’s cool.

We probably didn’t want to read it anyway, right? Your story? The shining soul child of your imagination and hard work? The obsession that’s kept you awake at night and in the zombie zone of blank-eyed stares over your cornflakes, morning after morning, while your brain builds the magnificent steel girdle of plot and your vibrant right hemisphere stretches the skin of detail and beauty across the iron bones to make something quite unique and amazing. Nah…We don’t want to see that. Who would?

Were you able to pick up on that sarcasm? It’s tricky in Cambria 12 font to really capture the essence of my meaning. Here, allow me be to be perfectly direct.

Show me your work! (Channeling Cuba Gooding Jr.—“Show me the Story!”)

It’s quite possibly the hardest thing you’ll ever do (even harder than killing your darlings? Why yes, even harder than that!) Being a writer is a parade of progressively harder choices and leaps of faith…but then again, so is life… hang on to your self-help hats here, she’s getting deep.

Yeah, it is scary. Because we’ve learned well by this point in our lives that when we put so much love and heart into our work it’s gut-wrenching to hand it over to someone who can’t possibly understand the grit and soul we put into it. They might misinterpret. They might not ‘get’ it. They might declare us wrong, or awful, or in desperate need to change our dreams.

Nobody wants to face that possibility. You are not alone in this fear. And let’s face facts; there are jerks out there. Legit, bonafide A-holes. Those that are quick to cut down creative efforts (especially when they get to hide behind the curtain of anonymity in some trolling-Wizard-of-Oz’s mother’s basement.) They LOVE to give a good criticism, because of their own fears of failure and are stung by the twinge of jealousy when someone else is bold and brave enough to create and share.

It’s a sad state of affairs but your work can become fresh meat for the slathering-mouthed, teeth-gnashers of the world.

You Are Not Alone. You aren’t the first they’ll try to tear down, and you certainly won’t be the last.

Do it anyway.

Why? Why torture yourself? Because, there are good people out there. People who love stories and story-tellers. People who understand it’s a process and that when you come to them with open pages and hearts, that they are taking on a mantle of trust. Trust that they will be kind, but honest. That they will work WITH you to make the story better. They will point out things you’ve been too close to see. They will point out things they think could use clarification. They will show you the loosened bolts and torn canvas so you can repair your creation. They will point out the beauty, the grace, the delicate details that gave them shivers or tears and it will embolden your spirit to fight for your creature.

Sharing your book is a monumentally important part of finishing your book. It will teach you what you didn’t know about your writing. It will teach you what works, and what needs work.

My challenge to you, frightened artist cowering over your pages like a hunched Gollum in the dark defending a scarred band of metal, is to offer up your precious. The beauty and the joy of creating are in the sharing.

I’ve had my cut of criticisms, hard and dirty. Mean. Some of them made me wonder if the person had even read my writing or just made assumptions based on my genre and lack of MFA gilding. I’ve wanted to take match and tinder to 8 years worth of my life on the front lawn while screaming profanities in the general direction of certain publishing houses. But I didn’t. I cooled down and let myself say these words to my disgruntled brain.

“What are they seeing? What is slowing my writing/impairing my message? What can I change while still being true to my work?”

Opening the wound is to lay your ego out on the ground beside your creature and do the work that needs to be done. This is not an actual child. It’s an idea. And all good ideas can always get better.

Find a group of friends. Start there. Start with those that love you. Move up to those that think you’re decent enough, but aren’t afraid to tell you what they think. Give it to a few discerning hard-asses. Each step along the way, refining and tweaking, without giving up your voice or the elements that make your writing yours. No one can take that, nor should you let them.

So that’s it. The third and nearly final part of this series. Next week I’ll wrap it all up with a handy and bulleted (we all know you love the bullet lists) list of how to query your work to someone who can serve as a gateway into the realm of publishing.

Good luck, kiddo. And if all else fails and you don’t know where to turn with your work, send it to me or another writer you trust. Nobody knows the soul struggle better than your own kind.

Poetry 3-14-24

In honor of spring, I’ve dug this little gem out of one of the many unmarked-but-filled journals in my desk. My poor children will one day find all of these scratchings and will have to make sense of them, or they may chose to burn them (I will be gone and won’t offer protest). I hope some of my words survive. So they know the normalcy of a heart, wild-raging and how undefinable a life really is.

Sown

I am wakening
though this small seed planted
seems stagnant
and it is cold and dark
the surrounding day
so dense and ungiving
but the seed is planted
and every seed has
potential
for awakening

And this seed...
I know her concrete shell
her impervious coat
you think the darker,
the colder,
the absolute absence of love
would kill her
dead pod in ground
served justice for even thinking
of blooming on her own

But you do not know this seed,
no one does
except me.
I knew when I plucked her
from my heart in the solitary depths of
lovely dispair, and whispered
incantations of self-worth
of imperviousness
of an unbreakable shell
an unkillable flame
the magic was set and
it no longer needed
what living things needed
to survive

because she is survival
and her words will tendril
into the hard pack of your indifference
and she will feed off of your apathy
and she will shoot forth
arms to the sky
that you cannot hold down
with guilt or obligations
or crocodile tears

because she is the boundless
and unshakable irreverence
of me,
and I will awaken
in the absence of your love

Big News and…Less-Big News

Well, first there’s this…

If you don’t follow me on social media, the big news of the week is that “Raising Elle” was selected as a finalist for the Colorado Book Awards through The Colorado Humanities. The winners will be announced at the end of June. But until I lose (probable) I will crow about it wherever I can. Because I believe in the arts and this is a huge honor. Congratulations to my fellow finalists as well!

What else is in news? Well… I’ll be teaching at a sweet little mountain retreat in May. I believe there are still spots open and its going to be a great way to kick start your next project, or help you overcome the roadblocks you might be having. The Writers Retreat, sponsored by the Writing Heights Writer’s Association is May 6th through the 9th and will feature workshops as well as free-write time. Food and lodging is included, and its really a great deal. Don’t wait, because spots will fill up fast.

Whenever someone asks me how I finished my first novel, it was because I invested in the time to work on it. Time is what a retreat offers you, away from the demands of the day so you can throw your heart into your work. And that’s how books get written. Register HERE.

Hm…also…I will be teaching a few Saturday classes through the WHWA coming up. But even if its not me teaching them, you should attend. Every third Saturday, for a very small fee (free if you’re a member of WHWA-register here) you get two, one-hour classes on craft, business, and writing related topics.

If you have a youth interested in writing, this is a GREAT time to get them signed up for my youth classes (every 2nd Saturday from 1-3. Free, no charge, and fun) we’re working on putting together a book, and the young writers will be paid for their submissions. Check out that website here.

The yearly conference for WHWA is on July 19th-20th and will focus on the other aspects involved with writing, including goal setting for writers, contracts and dealing with copyrights in the era of AI, marketing, formatting, and building up your platform. It should be really helpful for those of you who are taking next steps in the process. You can Register Here and we can hang out after all the braining for a martini or a cup of tea.

In other, lesser news…I’m stalled out on my writing. I don’t know if its a combination of everything else happening in life (kids, pets, surgeries, existential dread, running injuries, feelings of inadequacy, lack of sleep, imposter syndrome, anxiety, depression…lack of fucks to give? disillusionment, loss of romanticism, loss of…will to create anything at all. I don’t even want to make a sandwich) but I’m struggling. I’m trying out playwriting… I’m failing. I think I’ve rewritten the current project (not even complete) four times over and I’m barely making headway… I don’t have a new book ready. I don’t even have any of my older projects done…my current Kindle Vella is…DOA, and I feel like I’m bereft of purpose. So….yeah. Happy week I guess? I keep telling myself it’ll come back. But the snide and growing voice in the back of my head keeps sneering…”what if it doesn’t?”

what if it doesn’t?

Maybe life just goes on. Regardless of what my little nothingness of an existence is doing. Life will go on.

When the Universe Conspires…

Do you believe in coincidence? Do you think…things just happen, at random and we catch them (or don’t) as they pass, and its simply a game of chance? Or do you believe in that beautiful swirling nebula of fate…a universal design that has an orbit, predesigned.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about connections, intentions, and the broader picture of a universe playing busy body in the minuscule lives of humans. Honestly, why would a universe care? And yet…sometimes, things align to a startling degree… It is a fine line between a nagging cosmos, and just good old fashioned human planning. I believe it to be true, that in both cases, our lives and our fates are made. The only thing that seems to muck up my semi-good theories is the addition of the fourth dimension, time. Or rather…Timeliness.

The first truth I know is that when you set your intention on something you want, often, you start moving in that direction. Disclaimer–you cannot simply set the intention. You tell the universe what you’re seeking and then, you start to make active (even if small) steps towards that something. You want to be a great painter, you set up a class. You buy the right supplies, you practice…You want to land a certain job, you research the company, find your matching skills, network… Setting intentions and the small movements you make forward set forth a path in the direction of your dream. Sometimes…it’s a very looooooong game. Like years in the making, and there are times you lose sight of your original intention, or get waylaid…sometimes its something as simple as working up the courage to try something new…baby steps are the key. Baby steps in the direction of your dreams

Secondly, I honestly believe when you put good into the universe, when you give love and compassion, outside of the ridiculous bounds of if someone “deserves” it or not and not for the reason of getting it back necessarily, you are building a nest. A nest of positivity and connection and a safe haven for those around you. Who feel safe coming to you when in need and who feel happy to help when you yourself are in need. Our nests are our families, our friends and our communities. They can be organizations we believe in, or programs that we want to see flourish, but when we invest our time and our love into those things, we are building a safe space for others and ourselves to explore and be supported.

All of these things are within my control, and yours too….but what I don’t get lately is how, on two separate occasions this week, I’ve been able to bring people, all of whom I love and want such good and beautiful things for, together in ways that are symbiotic and purposeful. And this is where that illusive magic of timing comes in. How on that exact day, how in that one moment of action…did everything align?

I think when we set a path and build a nest, things happen in good time. Its nearly always unexpected (I’m not a goddamn fortune teller) but it happens when the conditions (often that we build and foster) are right and the match strikes. And that’s why I believe… that fate and choice are two conspiring lovers, and in seeking out one you’ll never get the whole, but when you take care of the choices you make, the fate will follow.

So go build a nest, give love and compassion freely to all that are in need, pursue your dreams in small steps or large leaps of faith…

Everything will work out. Just like it should.

Poetry 2-22-2024

I know its still Winter, but these are the gray months that beg my mind wander back to the comfort of knowing Spring will come again. I don’t really know how many more Springs the world has left. It’s all so complicated and teetering on death, isn’t it? We take so much for granted, we kill, and destroy, and maim and use up…as though there is no other fate left us, no generations in our wake that have to live in the wake of our destruction… How ridiculous and short-sighted humans are. We absolutely deserve everything Nature throws at us.

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The shudder of new leaves
arriving to a world
in its heyday of destruction
is such bitter sweetness

Life, searching to be,
striving to find its balance
even when we've already tipped the scales
too far
for hope

I mourn these spring petals
littering the ground,
beauty fallen to lifeless concrete
and wonder,
what she ever did
to deserve us.

A Super Secret Guide to Finishing Your Damn Book. Part Deux: Seeing The Bigger Picture

Bonjour!

I’m so glad you decided to come back.

How was last week?

Did you separate the amoebic tendrils of your technological parasites long enough to remember how to write, free-style? Did you get hand cramps? Keep it up, before you know it, you’ll be cleaning and jerking 7,000 words a week, vocabularian veins popping out all over the place.

For this week we’re going to zoom ahead to the future; to the cumulation of all your writing efforts and the massive chunk of story sitting in front of you. All of those beautiful words you’ve poured into a pile are just waiting for the dexterous hand of a good story teller.

Your rough draft is like a thousand pound hunk of stone. If you want to get all “Americana” on it, you could even say its akin to a 100 pound ‘pat’ of butter. Yeah, let’s go with butter.

The rough material has potential. Your story has energy and power. But if you were to send in a stick of butter to the Iowa State Fair judging committee, they’d probably to one of three things: write you a scathing review for wasting their time; send it back and write a scathing review for wasting their time; or batter it, deep fat fry it, and send their thanks for the mid-morning snack.

Jabba the Butt(er). No? Come on. You have no idea how many hours I spent looking at butter sculpture.

Your book, your words, your ideas deserve better. If you loved it enough to write it, then love it enough to shape it into the best it can be. And by that I mean…learn to edit your work properly. This week’s true secret to finishing your damn book is something you won’t hear from a lot of writers and here it is:

Being a great writer is 20% writing. and 267% editing. Shut up, I’m not good a public math. Seriously though, when you get your ass in that chair and throw all the good and bad down, and your mind learns to work in the space and time you give it to create, you can really accumulate a massive amount in a short period of time. But the art of writing, the finesse, the je ne sais quoi, if you will, lies in the ability to edit that beautiful mess into a story that captivates.

Que voulez-vous dire?

How does this magic happen, you might ask? If you’ve been around in the writing game for any amount of time, you’ve had the old adage banged into your skull over and over “Kill your darlings, Kill your darlings…” Yes…yes Maestro Faulkner, whatever you ask!

What does that really mean? Well–*le sigh*–it means you as a dreamer, a wordsmith, a lover of story and character…you, creator…must become a destroyer. A hard, eagle-eyed machine; disconnected from the rapport you’ve built over the years with your characters. You must let go of the personal angst, pain, and joy you’ve brought into the world enough to see its true potential. You have to take that beautiful hunk of marble (or butter) and break the rough and useless parts away to reveal the true work of art beneath.

Yep…that’s a giant butter cock with a saddle. You. Are. Welcome. (By the way, ‘giant butter cock’ is now trademarked. By me.)

Oh, Mon Dieu!  (which literally translates to OMD—OMD Becky, regarde ses derrière!)

The practice of “Killing your Darlings” is meant to make you understand that editing is hard. That letting go of the phrases and pieces of your novel that you love, when they are distractions to the story and its flow, can be the best thing you do. Cut. Cut deep. Cut the subconscious catch phrases and passivity. Give your readers a stronger character by making them the center of the action; by putting the reader in their shoes. Stop telling us everything. Cull the useless, the distracting, the stuffy, the monologues and head hopping. Give us the moonlight glinting off of window panes.

Take that lump and make it into something where details pull double-duty and every word counts. Line by line, strike out that which does not serve purpose or cause emotion to rise in the chest. Because even the most indescript lump of butter can turn into something quite magnificent when given the time and attention it deserves.

Sweet, Angelic Milk Fat.

Next week…after all of you hoodlums have taken a hard look at your work and gutted it to buttery perfection, we’ll take a look at what you can do next to get that silky minx out into the world.

Until then, keep writing. Drop me a line. Tell me how you’re doing.

Does anyone really want a giant baguette right now?

 

 

 

A Super Secret Guide to Finishing Your Work In Progress. Part 1: Technology vs. Creativity

Hey there, writer? Whatcha doin’? Surfing the Internet? Caught up in some devilishly clever blog post that has promised to give you the secrets of the craft in one easy-to-read, bulleted list with some fancy-schmancy graphics?

 

I see you.

 

I’m glad you’re here, actually, I DO have some important advice in this my first lesson on finishing your work in progress.

 

Get off the Internet and back to your writing, you filthy animal.

 

Ok…wait! Not right now…just hear me out. I promise, I’ll be brief (500 words or so…Look! Only 420 left! 418…)

 

Fewer things deter the creative process like the multi-faceted distractions we face in our interconnected world. The phone, social media, the addictive thumbs-up ‘likes’ and sympathetic sobbing emojis. Constant information streams into our overworked, underfed brains; the lies, the truth, the barrage of sight and sound that, when boiled down, amounts to so much nothing. So much noise.

So shut it down.

That’s it.

That’s all. Part 1, in a neat little nutshell. Expand? Ok, but only because you asked…

Do you want to write more? Then disconnect. Grab a pen and paper and sit your ass on a park bench or in a coffee shop with your phone and laptop “conveniently” left at home.

 

“But…but I can’t just write! I won’t be able to spell check or word count (320 left) or research the typical milk production of a Nubian goat in April!”

 

First of all, my little perfectionist, rough drafts don’t need to be spell checked the moment words hit paper (shocking, right?)

 

Secondly, one page of average handwriting has about 250 words give or take. You’re welcome.

 

Third (ly?), you sound like someone who could use my patented “Blah Blah” technique to avoid distraction in the middle of your writing flow.

Not familiar? Well, don’t search it on line (Jesus, haven’t you been listening to me?) It’s a secret I share with only my closest creative misfits, lucky you.

When you don’t know a factual detail of some part of your scene, insert the words “Blah Blah” into the space and move on.

 

Did you—did you just roll your eyes at me?  Watch it…I will mom voice you so hard…

Observe:

“Victoria knew that the Nubians would produce at least blah blah of milk next month, giving her blah blah bars of homemade soap to sell.”

It also works if I’ve forgotten a secondary character’s name but know that scrolling back to find it will dry up the good stuff that’s pouring out:

“ ‘You’re a handful,’ Mr. Blah Blah said and scowled over the drag pole fence.”

Don’t fiddle with your flow. Let the unnecessary lay in wait and avoid the pitfall of jumping on the Internet to do some ‘quick research’ which will curtail your thought process and take you away from your work (16 hours of baby-goats-in-pajamas-videos later and I’ve forgotten evil exists in the world. Good for sleep, bad for fleshing out antagonists.)

When the creative dust has settled into a beautiful, uninhibited outpouring of ingenuity go back and find your ‘blah blahs’ (they stick out like sore typos, especially being ‘repeat’ words) and you can designate a specific, allotted time to research and check them.

 

There it is.

But in my forty or so words left, I should give you at least one bullet (I believe I promised it somewhere up there.)

More than just in your writing, consider disconnecting in your life. Be present in the world around you, not face down in a screen. Your writing will be better. Your life will be better. Power down for at least an hour a day. No phone, no television, no laptop, no screen. Live through your eyes, your ears… all those messy, beautiful human senses your mother worked so hard to make for nine months. Notice the vibrancy of color in nature, the way wind feels against your cheek. Listen to your own breath. Taste your food. Powerful writing comes from living with powerful intention.

 

Ok, now you can leave me. I apologize for surpassing the mark. What can I say? I didn’t want to mess with my flow.

Go work on your book. Your poem…your passion. Come back and let me know how it’s going.

I’m signing off for the day, but I’ll get back to you when my creative dust settles.

Poetry 2/1/2024

Obstinate

My mind is obstinate today
though the sun is well past up
and the traffic is growling
on soft streets
like wild animals rejecting suburbia

my lights have gone out
and I'm wrapped in gray
struggling through the muck
of a thousand demands,
mostly self imposed
to keep me from slitting my wrists

I am obstinate today
walled up against progress and productivity
I scarcely believe there is blood
in my veins to let out
not in the tub
not on the page

I am obstinately hollow
and feeling undeserving of the titles
"woman" and "mother"
aren't these strong, unshakeable elementals?
I am not either today

I'm simply
obstinate