Finding It, All Over Again

A writer operates under the constant fear that he/she isn't actually talented or capable. There's just something about finding part of your identity (and spare me the theology on this one…I have the sermon memorized) in work that's considered subjective. And although there are educated people out there who can show you just how not subjective some forms of creativity really are, your average everyday joe won't know the difference. And who are we kidding? 99.99% of anyone who will read what you write falls into the everyday joe category. (As well they should. Don't get me wrong.) So, even if you have talent, you may not see an ounce of educated affirmation. And even if you don't have talent, some idiot or well-intentioned someone will think you do, and that's all your inflated ego will need to keep driving down a dead-end road. It can make it hard to take yourself or your "purpose" very seriously. Am I useless today or a genius? Just somewhere in the endless middle.



Okay, so here I am today, dealing with the fact that if I'm not writing I'm just wasting my days as an unemployed housewife. A little laundry isn't going to mean much to anyone, especially not to me. (Then again, if it's not done, I'm failing, too.) Maybe it should be empowering to start typing on an empty page, but sometime it feels more like going through the motions to convince myself I'm not just a big disappointment. I think deep down we're all a little disappointed in ourselves. Some of us just get more reminders on the subject by former employers and well-intentioned spouses.

And with that said, I’m going to try to write a poem. A good poem can take weeks of revisions and re-writes. But since I’m looking more to complete something than to get published in the New Yorker today, this one will not be a labor-intensive, multi-week project. Let’s face it: most people wouldn’t know the difference anyway… But I have to start somewhere, and I’m not completing a novel today. I'm going to start by posting something from when I was in grad school. It'll be an example of one of those multi-week poems I'm not writing today. Then I'll measure my progress or regression in a second poem, written on the fly. Needless to say, this is an exercise for myself. I have to measure the rust if I'm going to be serious about writing something other than fashion cliches after 3 years of that mindless crap at GUESS. So, without further ado, poem #1:

Unassisted Living

Lately unaccompanied, brittle
gray swaggers through her skin.

A wasted face, solo called
child once, mother,

then simply old, without changing
shadows, none came

but stranger helpers
dressed in white, soft sneakers.

She feels the weight, waiting.
We grew blind when she turned

invisible. Our voices strut
amidst failing ears, noting volume not heart.

She forgets the order
of ninety three years, and familiar

faces grow extinct.
Just strangers in white,

soft food, soft shoes,
hard days still left to breathe sour air.


The thing most of my poetry from the educated, undiluted years seem to have in common is darkness. Like most writers, I've found most of my inspiration in the sadder elements of life. I just did a survey of my final readings for Master Poetry and they're all like this. They all explore some part of life people don't talk about during their greeting time in Sunday morning church services. I wonder why our most creative moments are so darkly infused. Okay, enough stupid commentary. I'm stalling. I'm afraid to write... Here goes:

Sun, Then Shade

This day is shedding
its frilly coat to wake
me from the haze of contentment.

I wrote aimlessly of fulfillment found
in a day of lists and familiar
faces. Then I sank

into the darker place. I made
the mistake of reflection and discovered
the brittle shell of a woman child.

I have let the machine
run dry. I have sleep-walked through
a big, clean empty house.