Stuck

Write about what you see. Write about your oldest memories. Write about your grandmother’s hands. Write about the ocean.

Begin a sentence with, “I remember…” Flip through a favorite book and pull out a line that grabs you. Steal a line from a favorite poem. Dig through your journals for inspiration.

Make a list of the “stepping stones” of your life. Write about a random object. Re-tell a vivid dream. Just write.

The advice pours in. The inspirations fly. The ideas circle about like a whirlwind above my head. But I’m stuck. It is Monday night, 8pm. I have to find something to read to my writing group tomorrow. I’d love it if I could read something fresh, something brilliant, something creative and powerful and wonderful. Something that would leave them speechless, with chills or tears or an overwhelming sense of envy for my gift. But I’m stuck. Nothing is coming. Nothing brilliant or fresh or powerful, that is. Only this.

Write about why you think you are stuck. Write about getting un-stuck. Write about a time when you wish you could be stuck. Was there ever such a time? Or forget about being stuck all together and just write, damn it. Put pen to page, scribble a few lines and let go. It will come. And if it doesn’t? Try again later. But I can’t. Aren’t you listening? I have to find something to read to my group tomorrow. I don’t want to read them shit. I know, I know, we all write shit sometimes, but I don’t want them to know that I do. I don’t want to show them this babbling mess of self-doubt, questioning and arguing with myself. What would they think of me?

Don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, grammar – or the critics (internal or external). Just write. Open the notebook and go. Let it flow. Time yourself – 10 minutes, 15 minutes, whatever it takes. Keep your hand moving. Don’t stop. Don’t edit. Don’t cross out. Just write. Just write what? Write about my Saturday of running errands and hanging out with friends and watching a movie? Write about my lazy Sunday where I accomplished nothing except spending quality time with my boyfriend? Write about the dog waking us up at 3am and scaring us half to death? Write about the long drive to Lawrenceburg and tutoring today? Blah, blah, blah. No one wants to hear about that, not even me and I am living it.

Make a list of things you love. Make a list of things you hate. List your dreams, your worries, your childhood memories. List the things you want to do in the next year or the things you want to do in your lifetime. List the simple things that make you smile. Or your favorite songs. List anything, as long as it gets the pen moving. Just write. Oh, my goodness…will this ever end? I know all the writing prompts. I have been reading about writing and studying writing and living writing for years. And yet, right now, today, this moment, I am stuck. I can’t write a list and even if I tried, I’d get bored or tired or uninspired. The list would seem flat and my memory would fail and my dreams would seem dim. I can’t do it right now, I’m stuck.

Well then don’t do it. No one says you have to. Maybe you’re just not ready right now. Maybe you’re just not inspired. Maybe the time is just not right. Maybe you need to wait a bit and find other things to feed your creativity. Maybe it is OK to be stuck.

Well, I don’t know what to say. I have never given myself permission to be stuck before. I have never said it was OK to NOT WRITE. Wow. What do I do instead?

I think I’ll go write in my journal.

Spring in Indiana

So it's spring now. And I am here in Indiana. I feel so far from home, sometimes, when I think about the little, familiar things of my life. The change of seasons usually sparks memories for me of rituals and traditions back home.

In spring, in New Jersey, one of my rituals was to take my first barefoot walk on the beach as soon as it was warm enough to do so. Right now my feet are itching for that grainy sand - warmed by the sun, crusty with salt and fresh from the winter's solitude. I am imagining the bright blue sky, golden sunshine burning bright overhead and the churning ocean waves, their soothing sound echoing through me. The breeze brings in the smell of the salty sea, as it leaves its mist upon my skin. Pure white clamshells, black muscles, pink scallops and blueclaw crabs litter the beach, deposited here from the last winter storm. The gulls cry overhead, cruising the sky above the beach for a tasty treat - possibly a fish, a clam or even some poor visitor's sandwich! It is a peaceful stroll down the sandy beach toward the shore. It is something I can do in my sleep, I've done it so many times before. This is my home, my roots, my history. The salty sea is in my blood, a piece of my heart, ingrained in my every part of me.

Spring in Indiana is different. Of course there is no ocean beach to stroll. No salty sea breeze. No clamshells or seagulls or ocean waves. In Indiana, the sun still shines bright. The sky is still a beautiful, expansive blue. The birds appear at the feeder, their songs and chirps creating a lovely racket out my window. There are buds on the trees. Crocuses and daffodils are beginning to emerge from the cold earth. There is new growth abound. It is beautiful. But it's different. It's new. It is something I have to learn, a history I have to wait for. I'll have to create my own ritual for the beginning of spring here. I can't very well take that first barefoot walk on the beach. But what can I do?

I'll plant a garden here. I'll dig my hands into the earth and create something new. I will make my mark upon the soil, and plant seeds that will sprout new beginnings. I will grow flowers, vegetables, strawberries and memories. And next year, when the first day of spring arrives and I am itching for that walk upon the shore in New Jersey, perhaps I will have new rituals to guide me, new memories to comfort me, and a new history to bring me home.

Spring is Coming!!!

Spring arrives on Friday, but today it is sunny and beautiful and forecast to be in the 7o's, so I couldn't help but think of some things I love about spring...

1. Flowers
2. Wearing t-shirts outside.
3. The smell of fresh cut grass.
4. Opening the windows and letting in the fresh air.
5. Laying/sitting outside on a blanket/chair, reading a book.
6. The sounds of children playing.
7. Lemonade and Iced Tea taste so much better in the spring.
8. Planting a garden.
9. Watching the spring birds return and trying to identify them.
10. In NJ, I used to love taking that first barefoot walk on the beach in the spring...in Indiana, I'll have to come up with a new ritual.
11. Earth Day (April 22nd).
12. Spending ANY amount of time outdoors - walking, sitting, reading, playing cornhole (we do that her in Indiana!), bar-b-ques (here they call them "grill-outs!), cloud-watching and so much more!
13. The colors of spring - new green grass and leaves on trees; beautiful blue skies; golden sunshine; white, puffy clouds; flowers of every color, shape, size and variety; the way the water (any water) sparkles in the sun; pink lemonade.........

The Blank Page

I haven't written in a while.
I've been busy, blocked, sad and searching.
The words just wouldn't come to mind, to heart, to lips, to pen...
To the blank page.

I sat down to write a poem, but only tears flowed.
I curled up to begin a story, but all I created was anxiety.
I made an attempt to craft an essay, but I was overwhelmed.

So instead, I ate chocolate and had a glass of wine.
I pulled weeds in the garden, watched a little television and went out with friends.
I busied myself with a looming deadline, self-created, of course.

All the while, the blank page waited.
Now, there's so much to say, so much to tell.
There's so much to reveal, so much to discover.
And the blank page sits open and ready to take it all in.

Losing Julie

I am shocked and saddened by the loss of Julie, a writer and friend from my Tuesday morning writing class with Women Writing for (a) Change. I met Julie during our class last semester and always appreciated her honesty, wit and compassion.

I got to know Julie much better during a small and intimate writing retreat last fall at the Moye Spiritual Life Center in Northern Kentucky. During our weekend writing retreat, Julie and I shared writing, stories, laughter and snacks in the Girls' Cafe (she loved her Diet Coke!). Julie treated me with compassion and respect, kindness and friendship as we shared pieces of ourselves through writing and discussion. I will treasure the supportive and compassionate note she wrote to me after I read a particularly difficult piece in our group that caused the tears to flow. In that note, Julie congratulated me on my bravery and thanked me for sharing my work. I thank Julie now, for sharing herself.

It was my hope that I would get to know Julie better and hear more of her wonderful stories when we recently became Facebook friends and then began another writing class together with WWf(a)C this winter. Sadly, Julie passed away suddenly last Sunday.

Julie will be remembered and missed.

Creating in the Middle of Things

Creating in the middle of things. It's another inspiration from Eric Maisel, the Creativity Coach, from his book, Coaching the Artist Within. The idea is to create in the middle of things - in the middle of turmoil and tension, in the middle of stress and sensation, in the middle of boredom and beauty, in the middle of life! Maisel says, "You are always in the middle of your personality, always in the middle of your stream of consciousness, always in the middle of your culture. There is no exit."

Writing, for me, comes in waves. I have let it come in waves. I have submitted to the idea that there are times when I am not inspired, when I am tired, when I want to shut off my brain and watch mindless television for an hour or two. I have let the writing slip off to the side when I've had "better" things to do, something more fun and less stressful, something easier and more shallow. I have let life - and relationships and jobs and adventures and responsibilities - take over. But I still write. Because writing is what I love. It is my passion and my dream, my obsession and my life.

I write in the middle of things. I bring notebooks and pens with me wherever I go. I try to write every day. I write when I am happy and when I am sad. I write when I feel lost and also when I know exactly where I am. I write for solace and celebration. I write in fear and with tremendous courage. I write when I am weak and also when I am strong. I write, I create - in the middle of things.

But there's more I could do. I could give up that hour or two of television even though I just want to shut off my mind - and write anyway. I could push through the exhaustion - and write anyway. I could acknowledge that I may not be inspired at any given moment - and write anyway. I could forgo those plans with friends even though everyone else is going out and I haven't seen them in a while - and write anyway. But I also have to live my life - otherwise what do I write about?

I realize writers (and all artists) make sacrifices for their art. And I do make some. I have to, otherwise I wouldn't write. But as a writer, I must live, too. I must experience new things and have wild adventures; I must laugh and cry, fall in love and break-up. I must observe the beauty of the world and also open my eyes to the ugliness. I must let in the pain and give of myself. I must take and I must share.

I must dive in to the middle of things, and while I'm there, swirling around in the mess and the beauty, the laughter and the pain, the misery and the excitement; I must create - right in the middle of things. As you must, too.