First Words
I remember way back to being a child and given an occasional assignment to write a story or poem. I stared at my desk or the kitchen table feeling as empty as the paper by my hands. Thankfully, many instructors now use prompts that nudge without restricting much. One word or question may bash through the fear of the empty page with the tension of a challenge or the delight of possibility. Those first words with their sense of loneliness and reminders of past failures can be the hardest, but now we’ve made it through.
Right now I’m in the end stage of writing a picture book about animals that uses rhyme, a sound challenge that sets its own directions every few lines. I play with matches for words that may snap the line into humor, spin around the direction of the story, snag a new connection, or confound me enough to go back and find another word. Rhyme marks the edges of lines and sets boundaries that budge or bounce. They take me from what I know to what I don’t know. Rhymes don’t just limit but move, reminding me that I’m not alone, but interacting with the page that’s my world for the present.
Some of us who’ve been working a long time on long projects fit in writing in parking lots, on bleachers, or in between jobs and chores. We may forget that it was the world we now duck away from that first inspired us. When those other demands step back we can notice too much empty space, even if we still long for more of the lightness we call time. This is when it’s good to practice free writing, moving our pens quickly and without judgment. The empty page is filled again and we remember our commitment, even if it’s initially just going to mean lots of crossing out of what we put down. We’re grateful for any words on the page.
Writing is always some kind of conversation with the world, or a sort of dance that engages not only our own minds but what’s around us. Once we make a mark, we can follow it to another. Most words have a life of their own, with memories that are personal or shared which we might tease out during the next round of the dance we call revision. To swap similes, language stretches like a sweater that feels more comfortable every time we swing or spread our arms. Try it on again. Maybe it’s a little scruffier, loose at the elbows, but the color is still a favorite. Possible metaphors are all around us. What can we learn from what’s different and the same? Can we notice something new within the old, the ways the tangible informs the abstract, and write a brand new line?
For more Poetry Friday posts please visit Linda at TeacherDance.
