No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I added to memories held in the curl of these ancient, dusty, blue mountains Perhaps, I added new life to parts of myself The heat is sweltering There's just enough breeze running in the canyon to flutter cottonwood leaves I put my flip flops on and I'm off, with the wind
I felt there was a poem inside me that needed to come out, and I sat down with pencil and paper and wrote it down. When I read the poem back to myself, I cried for the first time, a good bit actually. The poem was the key I needed for tapping into the feelings that had been hanging out under the surface, just out of reach.
...to appreciate poetry or stories.
I pushed the housekeeping cart into the middle hallway and braced myself for the day. I’d been a technical writer not long before; this job hadn’t been part of the plan.
I don’t write a little every day. I stay up for two days, sleep for twelve hours, and then repeat that for a month. That’s the rhythm. When it hits, I don’t pace myself. I disappear into it. My body is not a temple. I use it to write until the thing is done. Then I collapse, hard, and spend the next few weeks pretending to be a person while waiting for it to happen again.
Talented writers...