Now that it’s summer, now that I’m not only retired, but without a religious affiliation, perhaps life has become too small for creativity. This house. This life–my life, whose episodes and experiences no longer seem unique, fresh, interesting.
Every day I read what people write and realize they know how to do this work, this writing work. I’m talking about ordinary people writing emails and texts to me. How erudite they are.
Struggle. Has writing well always been the most important goal for me? I think yes. And yet it seems so hard right now. Do I think myself unworthy? That old alibi. Why try?
It’s Postcard Poetry Fest. I vow to write 30 poems on 30 postcards and send them to 30 strangers. I write one every day. They are terrible. They are drafts without a spark. Words thrown into the abyss. They go to someone but they are not meant for anyone. They form a practice. By the end of 30 days will practice bring reward? By asking the question, I know the answer. No. You must practice another 30 days after that and then another 30 days after that. Many days may pass before you find the gift you seek. Months. Years. As in recovery, you simply take up your pen again, and write.