I Am A Hovercraft
Once again I find myself scrambling to write something at the 11th hour for posting this morning. I am all out of whack time-wise this week. Yesterday, I thought it was Tuesday. And then I panicked in the middle of the night when I realized it was actually Friday and I had sweet f* all to offer up this morning. Apparently, I'm in an ebb stage, not a flow. It's like a holding pattern where nothing is moving forward nor backward. I am a hovercraft; think of it that way.
(30 minute time lapse)
You won't know this but at this point I have written and deleted about a dozen paragraphs. Nothing wants to stick. Is it possible I have nothing to say? Quite likely. As an introvert, it's easy for me to be in silence. In fact, it is preferable but when there is a blog to write, one must press on.
(a few more paragraphs written and deleted)
I've decided to learn how to write poetry. Have your eyes just glazed over? Are you ready to pull the plug on reading further? I get that. Just mentioning the word poetry and I've pretty much bailed, too. I don't know much about poetry and up until very, very recently I was okay with that. Poetry scares me because I don't get it. Right? It makes me feel stupid. All kinds of flowery words and images that make no freakin' sense whatsoever. I can trudge through a poem, get to the end, and feel like I've just wasted two minutes of my precious time.
And yet ... I've been playing with prose for most of my literate life. Short stories, memoir, a novel in the works. My only foray into poetry has been that angsty teen drivel to which only one's diary should be subjected. Definitely not for a sentient audience. I did love Shakespearean sonnets and Wordsworth - something about that ancient style of wordsmithing just speaks to my soul, the purity of it. I love language and its employment of imagery and feeling and communication.
However, I also read T.S. Eliot's Wasteland and couldn't make heads nor tails of it. It was like trying to slog through the stream of consciousness messes of William Faulkner and James Joyce. Ugh. I think it was then, in University, when I developed a true hate for the pretentiousness of poetry. The musical equivalent would be drum solos in the middle of a perfectly good song to which I was singing along. What the heck are you supposed to do with a drum solo except be held captive by someone else's watch me, watch me ego?
But also, there's Maya Angelou whose poetry makes me cry and feel powerful and fierce. I can relate to what she says and how she says it. Is it because she is a woman and she tells it like it is? Possibly. But, mostly, Ms Angelou has shown me that poetry doesn't have to be loftier than thou. It doesn't have to tie one's brain in knots trying to comprehend it. The best advice I ever got as writer was this: Write simply. Write so that the reader can relate.
So, poetry. The new frontier. I've signed up for a couple of online workshops and I have enlisted the help of a mentor (please click through to Roger's web page. It will be worth your while, I promise). If nothing else, I like to be challenged and when I receive a gentle nudge from the universe, I try to heed it. It has been my experience that the universe has my back, my best interest, my personal growth, in its sights so I trust and go with it. Wish me luck!
Turns out I had something to say after all 😇.