Showing posts with label writing every day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing every day. Show all posts

Sunday, April 14, 2013

NaPoWriMo

We get Sundays off from the A-Z Challenge, but not so for NaPoWriMo. Regina gets honest in today's poem.





The Guilt of Honesty

Looking over a cliff
and if I don't take the first step
I will fall
or be pushed by circumstance
into the jagged rocks below.

 But if I jump
calculate my velocity,
I will hit
the cool water
below,

where I can swim
uninhibited,
free.
Maybe even bask on a rock
cleansing in sun and water,

before I climb
back up the cliff face
inch by inch.

And onto the path
that Leads
Home.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Living a Writer's Life

You know one. One of those writers who confidently says, "I write every day." There are famous authors who swear that writing every day got them to the top. I've heard it at conferences, critique groups and most recently while hanging out with some friends at a pub. And if you are one of those writer's let me be the first to commend you.

But let's be real. I pledge to myself that I will write every day and I fail 98% of the time. Lately my journal is the only writing getting any action and it's not daily, no matter how I try. And it's not a lack of discipline, it's really more the choices I make.

While attending a poetry reading with Robert Haight, he said that at first he did everything to be a writer, writing every day, hanging out in coffee shops, even taking up smoking. But it wasn't until he decided that he wanted live a life of poetry instead of being a poet that he was able to write. And when I heard that I felt so inspired.

Yes, I do know that writer who writes every day. In fact, he told me that even though he may not write the best material every day, he will out work anyone. And yes, I still find myself a tad bit jealous that he has the "writer's" life. And I could stay up until 2 am or get up at 2am and start writing.

 But for now I am choosing to live. And in living I am writing poetry. It's there in the face of my little girl as I kiss her goodnight. It's even in the pile of dishes in the sink. And in the dog's dish and the icicles hanging from my husband's wetsuit as he comes in from winter surfing and in the swish of my skis and crunch of the snow.

 And I hope that when I do make the choice to write religiously again, all that life will become poetry on the page.