I’m not a writing prompt person. I’m just not.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m creative, so I can make myself write something, but it won’t be satisfying.
I read today’s poem of the day and the prompts and…nothing.
This month, I’ve more often written something completely unrelated to the prompts, or even against them. I hate being such a rebel writer, but that’s me. Don’t tell me what to write is Word Raccoon’s battle cry.
This morning, I tricked Word Raccoon into going to the cafe earlier than usual. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my laptop, and just left the house, knowing the nosy girl would follow to get in a good writing session.
Did I forget a few things? Sure.
Did WR jump into the car? Of course. I think she thought we were going to the thrift shop. I blame it on her bleary-eyeness.
Her brain would not shut up last night. I gave her a book, and she was enjoying it, but her mind kept bouncing. I offered videos, and that quieted her for a bit, but she asked me how long she was supposed to be happy with the same same.
She wanted to just think, and I told her absolutely not. Not late at night, not into the early morning hours. Nothing good ever comes of that. Unless she wanted to write.
She did not want to write.
I gave her my next-to-last melatonin, knowing she’d wake up groggy, but better she get some sleep.
This morning she whispered her biggest fear: What if I have nothing else to say?
I don’t permit writer’s block in myself. I sympathize with those who have had it, but I will write anything, any number of nothings, rather than let that become a habit or take over my life. No, no, no.
“Fine, then write about that,” I told her.
And she did.
I found myself down a well with her a few minutes ago, pointing out that even an empty well isn’t empty. There are bricks and mud and insects that buzz in and out. We wrote a poem about it, and I told her, see, you’ve just not had a good writing session for a couple of weeks. You’ve been ill.
Just let the poems come. Jot a line. Don’t demand. Notice again. Just notice.
Is it ridiculous how much I enjoy, have always enjoyed, noticing?
I feel like the most beautiful things in life are experienced that way, by noticing, by witnessing. Maybe sometimes not even saying that you have.
What can be noticed is neverending. You just adjust the lens. There is always color, movement, shape, sound, scents. And the things that don’t change are the stage for the rest.
While Word Raccoon likes being noticed, I prefer doing the noticing. Okay, fine; she’s human, and I get it.
But also, WR, you know you find most of your poems by letting the world whirl toward you, picking up one image and then another, tasting them as you record them and let them go.
Funny how some sources are still our favorite meaning-makers. What is that all about, WR? Maybe we’ll never truly understand, but what is, is. We all have our favorite lens.
In other news, I’m happy to report that my poem “Any Color,” written last summer, has been accepted for May publication by whimperbang.
I have much more to say about it, but I think I’ll wait until the poem comes out.
In the meantime, I’m giving WR Cake. The music, I mean. It’s her most reliable writing fuel if she needs words to drown her fears. I think it’s their emo earnestness. A contradiction that is not.
dremadrudge.com 