what writer doesn’t crave time alone,
to write, float, feel free to create
in a world of imagined forms
yet ‘on your own’ brings up all kinds of stuff:
the thought, the feel, the sense of nothing,
the loneliness of being alone
I thought I’d welcome the time on page
that can stretch so far and deep –
yet now it’s self-pressure to perform
in my restricted bowl, with views of nought,
I have to reframe the reminder ticks
as a chance to live, to write, and transform
my blocks pop up in colourful ways
sometimes when I least expect,
and often – when I’m pulled
by that crazy creative force,
that desire to put my words out there –
the opposite has to exist:
primed to put a stop to my course,
to cut me from my source.
the horizon may be dewy,
the breeze may be blowy
the potential stretching out
may be incredibly alluring,
and yet a part of me,
a stubborn and relentless saboteur
wants to stub out
the scary unknown.
what I’d like to do is
kick those blocks aside,
send them scattering
off the pier of fear,
and to open my future
to run wildly, wind in my hair,
trust at my feet, sun in my dreams,
and strength in my belief.
All the work I’ve done on myself:
the therapy, the healing,
the certificates I’ve gained,
the triumph of Masters degrees.
And still I’m blocked.
All the promises I’ve made,
to stay true to my talent,
seem to land on fertile turf,
yet remain fallow, dry, non-manifest.
And still I’m blocked.
All the years I’ve passed,
with fresh intentions each Jan
that fade to grey, nudging into Feb.
In March it’s as if they never began.
And still I’m blocked.
All the distractions I excitedly seek.
New garden: tick. Weekly weeding: tock.
Jobs to take my mind off the task,
decade after decade. That’s the shock.
And still I’m blocked.
All the futures I’ll never achieve:
what will be my hand-me-down glory?
A creative life chronically unlived?
Or trusting what’s for me won’t go past me?
Knowing all of this… and more.
And still I’m blocked.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/KROMKRATHOG)
You’re blank,
you’re empty,
you’re scary.
A feeling of dread snakes up my spine.
The hand of fear grips my guts.
Nausea sits in the back of my head.
My dizzy eyes look anywhere but
the punishing screen in front.
I’m blank,
I’m empty,
I’m scared.
In my head is a perfect-shaped rhyme.
On the page it’s stinky old slime.
In my head is a thoroughbred thought.
On the page it’s mixed-up, debauched.
In my head is elegance and pace.
On the page it’s a cluttered disgrace.
In my head I want it to be all right.
On the page I fear it’s a right old sight.
In my head are obstacles many.
On the page the delays are plenty.
In my head I’m tired of the woes.
On the page I close my eyes and just go.
How can I distract myself? Let me count the ways.
It’s amazing how I can usefully and helpfully fill my days.
My sink is super-shiny, my rubber gloves worn out.
My fridge has no more mould, just freshly prepared trout.
That old shed of mine, with boxes of old books,
is now a spider-free den; a children-friendly nook.
The piles of beauty sachets in my bathroom cabinet
now languish in the bin. They give me no regrets.
The stray strands in my eyebrow, the split ends of my hair
are now all clipped and neat. All are gone, I swear.
The clothes from years gone by, that I promised I’d wear again,
are stuffed in plump black sacks, going to causes humane.
The oven’s clean and spick, dried-in dribbles gone.
Anyone would think I’m a domestic goddess reborn.
But every writer has to go there,
to a cave-like, darkened gloom;
to that wibbly-wobbly place
before you move from womb to bloom.
So when the deadline’s there
and you’re picking up the pace,
remember to give some space
to creativity’s ultimate grace.
Is inspiration all a writer needs...?
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inktuition 