Choices

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Right now I have the opportunity to clean house as a friend is coming over tomorrow or to write. I'm choosing the latter. I'm choosing the one that I could actually become something--a poem, an essay, a story--not the one I do that I'll have to do a few days from now and again, keep shaking out the throw rug over the deck.

When I was outside on the surprise warm day, I realized the vines of morning glory have reached their spinning heads from the ground. It's almost time for me to have two homes that need taking care of--inside and outside. I do enough to keep the neighbors from swearing at me, but not enough to have a garden that's "enviable." This suits me. This is my dress of life, not trimmed rosebushes, but a dress of wildflowers and buttercups.

I'm realizing as the weather gets better how much time I will spend away from my home, from my writing, from my garden. I feel a bit "out of time" and while there is always so much to do, there is also nothing to do but sit in my office and work on a poem. I celebrate in small ways--expensive cheese, good coffee, taking what time I need and using it to write.

Snapshot of My Poetry Workshop

Last night I met with my poetry workshop. We try to meet twice a month. If we are all there, there are eight of us. Usually, we’re about 5-6. All women. 7-9 p.m. Tea unless there is a celebration, then wine and/or organic sparkling cider. Snacks—always. At A’s we have something she’s baked—crumb cake, brownies. Sometimes there's a side snack (esp. during Lent) of hummus, crackers, smoked salmon. At J’s it’s dried figs, almonds, brazil nuts, fruit, and/or with a swoosh of dark chocolate. I was the keeper of the dried figs without dark chocolate (how many more weeks do I have left of this?!) We talk for a moment, pass our poems around, then someone puts them in an order and we’re off.

What intrigued me last night was 4 of the 6 poems made reference to a violence, human violence. The other poem that didn’t had a shark attack in it though. My poem had nothing like that. It looked at the art of writing letters in Emily Dickinson’s time vs. today’s online, email, instant message world. I did think my poem was the weakest of the group last night—not that I usually compare them—but the other poems did an incredible job of creating and maintaining tension throughout the poem. My poem was much more wordplay, then and now.

I think poems that create struggle can be some of the best poems. What I appreciated about the poems last night was not only did they tell a story, they were musical too. Interesting, musical poems. I can see the poems from last night all finding homes in journals. Though we don’t talk about submitting too much. Sometimes after a poem, someone will say, “So, where would you send this one?” and we may jump in with a few ideas, but mostly, the workshop is about the writing and craft. I would even say it’s about the art and balance of writing, of discussing how something came about, how we make time for poetry in our lives, what we’re reading or what in the poem-world (not poetry world, or po’ biz world) is of interest to us. We discuss a poem or poet, and what s/he is doing in his/her work that we’d like to be doing or are trying to do.

Mostly, it’s about the poems. We read them, we listen, we respond, we ask questions. Afterwards, we linger for a few minutes then return out into the darkness and find our own paths back home.

It's almost noon, have you written today?

"A writer is someone who has written today."

A friend, who teaches college, is a poet and wife and raising two small children sent me that quote by email the other day. She said since reading it, it's changed her --she is now making a point to write every day, despite her time constraints, her busy schedule, her laundry, her job, her life.

The quote changed me too. Before my eye concerns in December, I was someone who wrote every day. Many times, I wrote "starts" to poems that never really went anyplace, but sometimes they did. Sometimes I worked on my children's book. Sometimes I started a new and crazy project, sometimes I wrote an article. But the point was, I was writing. I was a writer.Since getting out of my old habits, I haven't been writing much in the last couple months. In fact, I've noticed this disturbing trend where I choose other things over my writing—I’ve never done this before. Writing has always been the one thing when I'm doing it, that I don't think "Oh, I should be doing this..." and now I'm trying to avoid it? What am I afraid of? Am I just out of habit?

I've been talking like a writer and acting like a poet, but I haven’t been "in that flow" of writing, something that become an important and essential part of my day for many years up until December--like an athlete constantly training for her event, I showed up to my computer daily. Sometimes with energy and ideas, sometimes not. But every day, I wrote. Even if it was only 15 minutes before bedtime, I took whatever slice the day gave me.

So I think about saying that-- "I'm a poet," or "I'm a writer," and how easily we can throw around those terms. I don't say, "I'm a gymnast" because I was one in school, “I’m a softball player” because I wore a uniform and played second base, I don’t even say "I'm a violinist" because I took lessons for 7 years, but haven't picked up a violin for 5 years due to it warping in the garage from moisture. Yet I've been calling myself a writer or poet when I haven't been writing poems or much of anything.

I'm taking my job of writer more seriously again, I’m making myself *earn* that title. In the morning, I flip over my handmade "Writer at Work" on my door, grab a cup of coffee (black) and begin. If I find myself starting to be distracted with other things, I focus more deeply.

I'm even thinking of going to Home Depot and getting those big vinyl letters and putting that across my wall: A writer is someone who has written today.

Yesterday, even pressed for time due to the snow, I wrote a lot in a short period of time. I was in that place where time was the spinning hands of a clock on the wall and what I saw were the words in front of me as they fell across the page.

Yes, I'm returning to my life as a writer--not a student, a title that will be leaving me soon, or a "hobbyist," I term I've always disliked for anyone who writes. I'm not content to be a "dabbler," to be the person who "almost" wrote a poem--though this will happen to me many times. I need to be the writer who shows up and sees what happens and not fall into the complacency trap or become the procrastinator you meet at parties-"I'm planning on writing a novel someday..." Let me tell you, someday will never come because it's not today; it's a future place where a novel lies in bits and pieces. It will never be some day or soon, it will never been next week, or next weekend, or when the kids are bigger, or I'm retired. I'm realizing that the moment is today to be a writer.

Why I believe time is this limitless entity--well, it is, but I'm not. I'm a temporary fingerprint on its window. And I realize much of being a writer, is habit, is showing up and writing. I'm not going to be easy on myself if I want to call myself a writer or a poet, a writer or poet is one that has written today...and that's the deal I'll make with myself. I will write today.