I’m struggling today. I’ve struggled on many days, but this morning is a fatigued sort of, dare I say, block. I dislike that term: block. I don’t believe in it. I’ve proven to myself over nearly a year that I can be bigger than some simple phrase like “writer’s block.” Yet, this morning, in a universe full of rich material, when things usually flow pretty well, I am challenged. This is when the learning happens, isn’t it? What would I deeply learn when process isn’t some painful? Discomfort helps along growth. I am struggling.
I just don’t want to write about Trump this morning. Politics. Or about crashing warships. Or the recent amazing eclipse (though I have lots of notes for that later). Or how there’s a tinge of early autumn working into the air these last few days. Or how deafening our friends the cicadas persist. Or how I’m looking forward to the pretty mums we’ll plant soon. Or the taste of smoky bourbon. Or another poem about something odd at the antique store. Or how my wife’s perfume lingers after an entire day along her collarbone.
I am not at a loss of “things” to write “about.” I’m staring through the computer screen, it seems. The poet’s “thousand-yard stare,” if we’re allowed to claim such an ailment. I’m not getting past a first line or two of inspiration. We’ve all been there. Have the ragged t-shirts tucked away to drag out and pull on occasionally. After 342 days of writing a poem or more a day, mine's getting pretty worn.
I just don’t want to write about Trump this morning. Politics. Or about crashing warships. Or the recent amazing eclipse (though I have lots of notes for that later). Or how there’s a tinge of early autumn working into the air these last few days. Or how deafening our friends the cicadas persist. Or how I’m looking forward to the pretty mums we’ll plant soon. Or the taste of smoky bourbon. Or another poem about something odd at the antique store. Or how my wife’s perfume lingers after an entire day along her collarbone.
I am not at a loss of “things” to write “about.” I’m staring through the computer screen, it seems. The poet’s “thousand-yard stare,” if we’re allowed to claim such an ailment. I’m not getting past a first line or two of inspiration. We’ve all been there. Have the ragged t-shirts tucked away to drag out and pull on occasionally. After 342 days of writing a poem or more a day, mine's getting pretty worn.
