I think I slept for three hours. Got up, did some “stuff” and then got down to some writing.  There are 150 other things I could and should be doing around this house, but I opted to plant my ass and type. Something. Anything! I did not write in my personal journal this morning, that came later, actually.

What I discovered today is this:  I don’t have to write it all at once. The story (or poem) doesn’t have to make sense on the first take. I can write small words and replace them with a better, more descriptive noun or adjective LATER. I wrote three pages (stopped in the middle to get some thoughts out of the way) and then returned to the blinking cursor.  This is what writing should feel like, and it feels better knowing it will be there when I get back.   I can’t write a good, interesting, read-worthy piece in one sitting.  I can’t stay up all night and pretend the midnight oil (and beer) will somehow light the way. It surely doesn’t. A happy, rested body and mind finds the right words to read for inspiration and then compose. I am learning to trust that I will come back and not leave ragged bits to flag in the wind.

Another thing I discovered is that there are very few poems coming to my Inbox by way of Poetry.org  that resemble romantic love poetry.  You can’t write “good” until you’ve seen “good.”  I compare them to some of the stuff I’ve written these last few years I think “Oh god, really? Where have I been?”  I’m seeing it every day, plastering pieces of it upon myself to carry around with me through the work day, and it’s sticking.

But the time marches by.  The kitchen is trashed but at least the laundry is washed (but not folded yet.)  Time to put away the words for now.  I won’t feel so distracted by them while running around slinging auto parts because I know they will be there when I get back. It seems I’ve learned how to keep covenant with the promise of words.