It’s gone 11 AM.
I’m still in my PJs after a late breakfast.
Web browsing from email notifications, I’m distracted –
by the arrival of the post (it keeps later mornings than I do, these days…):
a jiffy envelope containing a poetry pamphlet;
there’s a poem on its front cover…
And so my (relatively) work-free days speed by!
This morning, WordPress.com wishes me a Happy Anniversary. Apparently, it’s exactly 6 years since I registered and moved here from another popular free site. I’m not sure it’s cause for celebration – after all, my infrequent blog posts mean it’s been a rather on-off relationship. 147 posts over 6 years (you can do the maths – it’s not my forte).
Lately I’ve been thinking – this:
– about a lack of poem output – finished poems, that is (except they hardly ever are – even the published ones – right?).
– except I have been writing (yes?):
- interesting words gleaned/heard
- quotes from other writers/from poems, novels, short stories and articles I’ve read
- anything from a few lines to a few pages of free writing
- responses to writing prompts
- writing for the sake of writing something (anything) new
- writing out of fear – that I’ll never again write anything worth reading…
– and I’m continually re-drafting poems in that sub folder ‘Work in Progress’
– and when I’m not writing, I’m reading (which is most of the time)
– and I’m reading so that I can write (right?)
And my latest realisations are:
– that I’ve allowed myself to become preoccupied with Product rather than Process
– that I probably ‘produce’ more new writing now than I ever have
– that writing, like any art, requires many hours of practice – and practice is Process
– that the art of writing is probably 99% Process and 1% Product
A new feeling…not about [books and fame] but about the very opposite of those things, the actual process of writing.
and how this has changed his feelings about his writing:
Now I had let go of my grand designs I began to see my writing differently…a thing of joy…to be relished and played with…that sense of amazing possibility, that sense of ‘Why not…?’ and ‘What if…?’
And what of all my new writing that exists across several notebooks? Each time I look back at what I’ve written (much of it done in that magical time between semi-wakefulness and sleep – I’m not a morning person) I’m surprised into ‘Did I really write this?’ and ‘Where did it come from?’
Anthony also writes about discovering some scraps of his writing after a tidy up:
I had no memory of writing the words I was reading. They felt foreign, as though another writer with my handwriting had entered the house at night and forged my hand. I read the words but did not understand them. Something in me began to stir…
I read this and said ‘Yes! That’s it!’ The distance put between Writer and Writing becomes the catalyst; across the gap, a spark.