WHAT I LEARNED WRITING 365 POEMS IN 365 DAYS

-Your first poem will be the worst poem of the entire year. Easily. That’s what happens when you haven’t written in months. You’ve told your students this before, how the water needs to run brown before clear, but you’re still surprised by how brown the water really is. 

-Your last poem will not, however, be your best poem of the year. Nor will each poem get better with every passing day. Somehow, though, you will.

-Your best poem of the year may or may not have occurred on Day 10. That’s okay.

-While waiting for Inspiration is, indeed, for amateurs, when Inspiration does come, know that it may knock at the door of you at 2AM and keep you writing until 4. Know that you might wail on your keyboard like a sad singer before her piano.

-Turns out, your trauma is a finite resource. This is both the most aggravating and freeing lesson to learn as a writer.

-Turns out, the most fun you will have writing poetry this year will be your poems about Lana Del Rey. Turns out, the prestigious journal that has rejected you like, ten times, will accept one of these.

-Your poems are infinitely better if you’re also currently reading books. You know this, you tell people this, but scientific proof of the matter is RAD.

-You should read more.

-Poems about your dogs are almost never just about your dogs.

-You miss people you never thought you would miss.

-You will write even when you are sick with fever. The poems will be sick with fever. 

-When you realize your trauma is finite, you will write odes to Guacamole. Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap. Bed bugs. Sleeping Pills. Thrift Stores. Your car. Gwen Stefani. Selfies. A friend’s haircut. 

-You will write a series of poems with the same titles as all of the tracks on Taylor Swift’s 1989 album. They will be great.

-It will take about 200 days before you skip a day of writing. And then you will skip another, because in your mind you’ve already spoiled it (which is also the attitude you apply to healthy eating. This is inherently unhealthy. Change it.) 

-You won’t want to write while you are on vacation. You hardly ever get to vacation. So don’t write. Eat pie. Swim.

-A lot of people will ask you, “But okay, how many of your poems are haikus?” You will feel like a badass when you respond, “None.”

-The point is not 365 perfect polished poems. The point is showing up to your craft every single day. Devoting time to this thing that you say makes you who you are. Learning about your process over your product. The point is that if you are a writer, you must write. 

-Apparently it’s infinitely harder to write poems while also writing a novel. It’s okay if you skip some days in November when doing NaNoWriMo. You are still exploring yourself in new and remarkable ways. 

-When people congratulate you or seem impressed with your feat, you will make excuses and diminish yourself. “A lot of them were not good!” or “It’s not like I spent time editing them or making them perfect” or “Your poems are a lot better, though.” Stop that. You did this. You have a folder of poems on your computer to prove it. 365 examples that you can do anything you set your mind to. Smile. Say, Thank You. Yes, I did it.

-The year will end. The duty to write a poem every day will be lifted. The desire won’t be. Now is your time.

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Megan Falley is the author of two books of poetry published on Write Bloody: After the Witch Hunt and Redhead and the Slaughter King. To read her essay about taking 365 pictures in 365 days, click here.