Fodder

For the past couple of weeks, I've been taking the advice of a friend and getting up at 6am to write before going to work. The alarm goes off. I groggily kick the covers off my legs, and get up from where my hubby lies still in his sleep. I stretch noiselessly, stumble to the kitchen, and brew myself a small pot of coffee, French pressed— a gift from the wedding registry! Then, I trip over a cat or two and plop myself in front of the computer for the next hour and 15 minutes. I'd like to get more writing in, but I don't think I can stand to get up any earlier.

Most of the days, I’ve got something brewing. And, by something brewing, I mean, I take a poem I’ve already written and re-write it. When the page is blank, this method of getting started works like jumper cables—pumping a lifeless battery full of purpose.

Other mornings, I have to deal with the blank page. That was this morning. Needless to say, this morning I had an extra cup of coffee, and spent a lot of time reading other writers to get going (they can act like jumper cables too—I realized that I was heading down a healthier path as a writer when reading good poems inspired me instead of depressed me.) Then, every once in awhile when something stirred in my cob-webbed head, I would write it down—or type it in since I use the computer for composing. By 7am, I had a page. Albeit, the page was skeletal--only half thoughts, some pretty language, and some duds filled the space.

By the time I got to the second page, my next poem idea decided to show itself. Writing is a strange beast. If I sit down to write with an idea, almost always the poem is horrible, trite, and forced. But, if I sit down and just listen, and wait, and wait, and drink lots of caffeine, and wait, and remember to pray, and wait, the sounds turn into words and the words turn into sentences and the sentences turn into ideas and then, a poem is born.


Not that I would tell many people in my writing program this, but I have taken a sabbatical for the past year. I’ve had more pressing and important things to think about, namely becoming a Christian and a wife. And out of this experience, I’ve realized that writing is not the center of my life any more. It’s not the only thing I have going for me.

However, with this nugget of wisdom realized, something interesting has happened to my relationship with writing. I can’t help but take in how good it feels later in the evening when I think about writing and why I haven’t done it, the time of day where I begin to let that stampede of guilt run me over, and I remember, wait! I did it. I did it this morning. I got up, brewed some French pressed, and wrote, and yes, it might have been lousy writing, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is I feel like I’m doing what I should be doing. I’m letting this small part of my life play its part. I’m letting one gift I’ve been given thrive.

And, while writing does not consume the whole of my life, nor even define who I am, it is certainly something I should be doing based on the contentment I feel when I’m doing it and after I’ve done it. This is the time of my life when I should really embrace this gift. This is the time I’ve been given to sit down and think through this writing stuff, how it fits in my life, how to develop some good habits, and to make some dedicated, literary friends. This is a time in my life where I don’t have to get up with kids or really worry about work and how awesome is that? This is a time in my life where getting up to stare at a blank page at 6am is a beautiful thing, and yet encouragingly, not the only thing.