I wanted to share bits and pieces of what I've been working on offline. But I hate when writers write things and then share them and then publish them like the words are brand new. It feels, uncomfortable, inauthentic, ...something off... to me, so there's that fact.
Plus I am trying to mull over what's there, what I love, what I hate, and all in my own opinions instead of seeking immediate gratification from ya'll and finding myself unduly supported or discouraged. Turns out that writing a lot of words is really wonderful for one's inspiration and can simultaneously disintegrate one's resolve that this is what she's made for.
Regardless, this is happening and I actually burst into tears when I hit 10,000 words and tried to tell Jason. He, of course, looked terrified because he thought my computer took a dump or something. But it's true what authors say about writing being like raising a child that is beautiful and wild and not always willing to fall under your wishes or control.
So I'll share a little poem that I wrote in an attempt to get the creative ball rolling. I'm weirdly attached to it, but I guess that's because it feels like the starting point and, well, aren't we affectionate about humble beginnings?
Hope is from goodness,
His, ours, and otherwise.
Hope is from spare change for the homeless
(Cardboard sign on the roadside).
Hope is from honest work,
Sweaty, tedious, frustrating, but endured.
Hope is from full bellies,
family meals, conversations over coffee.
From “there is more to life”,
“the light at the end of tunnel”,
“I love you”s and “goodbye”s.
Hope is best served warm,
Comforting and cozy all the way down.
It’s like potatoes with gravy,
Chicken noodle soup,
Risotto, but for the mind and soul.
Hope is from tragedies and loss,
Gritty and scarred.
It’s smokey, skin like leather,
More Marlboro man than Tinkerbell.
Hope is from the history of making it,
of pulling together and pushing through.
For the future full of better times,
the promise of more.
So much more.
Hope is from recipes succeeded,
Pinterest projects completed,
Skinny days and strong moments.
Hope dwells in morning light, crisp and promising,
Evening dark, pockmarked by stars.
It’s the universal ingredient,
always perfect -breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
It started as a rewrite of this poem by George Allen Lyon, though it now looks nothing like it in completion. I guess that's writing.
How do ya'll get yourselves started, motivated, and inspired? And, hope, where does yours come from?