Poem: Waking Up

Some days are harder than others, it’s true. Some mornings, especially when I have to work, I’ll wake up before my alarm, water my plants, and bike to work. Other days, when I have the morning to spare, I may hit snooze again... And again… And again. I wonder where the time goes and why I don’t want to face the day.

I particularly struggled with this when I was living in England and studying for my Masters in English Literature. Because my classes were so late in the morning or in early afternoon, I had no obligation to keep a regular schedule. I set my alarm for eight anyway, though I found myself more often than not getting up at nine and my actual work starting at ten. I’ve gotten better, especially since I’ve graduated and since my new phone has a snooze function with ten-minute intervals instead of five. But I’m not always there.

The following poem is about that struggle. But I also like to think that it’s more than that. I’m more than that. It’s dedicated to those who don’t want to get up in the morning, those who’d rather sleep just a little later than deal with the coming day. You’ve got this.

Waking Up

I’ve stared at my calendar,

            but…   somehow…

I cannot seem to circle the day

            not when

today—tomorrow—is like a pool,

            and I

am lying on its edge.

Please don’t ask me to swim.

            not now—

not yet—just five more minutes,

            and I

promise I’ll get up—I’ll crawl

            across

the shore and plunge into the depths.

I can swim—stroke after stroke—

            it’s not

hours of swimming but just

            one arm after another.

I can do that. I can breathe.

            Lay on my back and feel

the rain patter down.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? Are you a morning person, or do you struggle with waking up?

Similar poems: Silent Words, Lost as a Leaf, and Pile of Words

Recovering from Writer's Block

I’m currently recovering from writer’s block. You may not have noticed because, after all, I’ve managed to keep up with my blog posts, I somehow scrounge up 3,000 words for my not-so-secret writing project every Sunday, and I sporadically come up with several poems a month. How does this constitute writer’s block again?

Let me just say it’s a slightly different block from ones I’d experienced before.

My sophomore year as an undergraduate, I have no recollection of writing anything. I don’t know how this was possible, but I don’t remember daydreaming either. The next year I remember getting bombarded with ideas, and no, they haven’t stopped. The summer after I finished a novel, I had no idea what to write next. I floundered and wasted two months watching movies and hanging out with family.

How was my most recent writer’s block different? It came from querying literary agents. I’ve never done that before.

And with the process came lots of self-doubt. Questions I hadn’t asked in a while resurfaced: What if my story isn’t good enough? What if I never get a book published? Did I just waste two and a half years on a story and get my hopes up for nothing?

And some terrifyingly new questions arose: Why should I waste more time working on a sequel if the first book never gets published? What if I wrote the book I wanted to read at the time but my reading style has changed? What if I’m not the writer I want to be?

That was it, I realized. I’m not the writer I want to be. The very idea that anything and everything I was writing right now is not what I want to read turned into a sort of dread. Near the beginning of March, I texted a friend and told her I didn’t want to write.

I didn’t want to write.

I didn’t want to write because I didn’t have any confidence in my own words. But even as I experienced the crushing feelings of doubt and fear that I would never accomplish anything as a writer (I have a blog. Hello, self-doubt. Are you listening yet?), I came to terms with the idea that I don’t have to accomplish everything right away. And that’s okay.

Because I still want to be a writer.

I may not be the writer I want to be yet, but I still have ambitions. I want to become a better writer. I want to get published. Hey, I’d even like to write a detail-rich 800-page book someday. Crazy, right? But I still have dreams, and while it may be a while before I see them come to fruition, that’s okay too. Even if I don’t see a book published of mine until five years from now, I think I’ll have done alright.

Even after I texted my friend halfway through the week, venting about how I didn’t want to write and was drowning in self-pity, come Sunday I wrote. I wrote a lot. Having gone through writer’s block countless times before had taught me one thing: self-doubt is no reason to give up. The best cure for writer’s block is to write. Even. If. The. Words. Are. Crap.

So I write. And yes, I’m still searching. I’m searching for the right words to put next. Searching for the next story idea that sparks my imagination and captures my excitement. Searching for the next book to read in between my writing days. Maybe that book I’m looking for right now isn’t even out there yet. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll have to write it.

Writers, when’s the last time you experienced writer’s block? What are some of the techniques you used to beat it? What are some of your biggest dreams as a writer?

Starlight: A Poem

Despite my general dislike for most movies, every now and then, I see one that really speaks to me and makes me think. Last year, my mom and I watched Words, a film about writers and a book within a book. Without giving too much away, the movie made me reflect on the way I care about my stories and the way I care about people. It also made me think about my own writing and my fear that my words will never be good enough.

Right after the movie, I rushed downstairs, my fingers itching to type something to capture such thoughts. I knew I had to write. But what could I say? How could I reflect upon a good film without being pretentious? The following poem is the result.

Starlight

It’s only a shadow—

Dancing by the light of the moon.

You throw your head back and laugh

in the darkness, alone with the crickets

chirping, singing your song.

The pond swirls beneath your feet,

murky mud between your toes,

comforts of being at home—

Four walls and a roof. Until it’s a set

three walls, imagine a ceiling,

and feign the motions. Follow the cues,

the script, strictly standing before you.

Don’t think to disobey. They’ll hear you

break the fourth wall. Standing in the sunlight,

bare arms prickle with goosebumps before a winter audience.

Don’t make me do it. I can’t dance.