I believe that inside you there are ideas bursting to come out.

I believe that over a lifetime, the only thing that really holds you back are the voices inside that say, “You cannot do this.”

I believe that we are all equally creative. It’s not a talent; it’s an ability to say “yes,” open up, and trust yourself.

I refuse to have a bad time.

What do you believe?

My brain has been feeling like a pot of chili that’s been forgotten on the back burner, so accept my apologies for a long absence.  Sometimes the small things yank your gray matter into gear, and today it was a piece of biscotti getting stuck in my keyboard.  The down key wouldn’t work.  I’m old enough that I learned to use a computer before the mouse came along, and so I use my arrow keys alot to navigate around.  No down key?  Total meltdown.  But it got me thinking about how small things can push you over the edge.  Forget the big things for now.  We all have a backpack full of life tragedies.  What little thing has pushed over the edge lately?  What little crumb has gotten stuck in your keyboard and messed up your counted-on flow?

I thought the NaNoWritMo participants might need some encouragement when it feels like the fires are burning low.  Here you go!

The Yes Poem

Yikes yes yeehah

Oh goody, thank goodness, this is great

Grin, smile, gleeful teeth

You bet, I’m with you, this will work

Okay! good idea, wonderful!

Nodding and bowing in agreement

Come in, join us, great!

Ahhh, I’m laughing out loud.

Wink wink, yessirree.

Hey, why not?

Nuf said.

I posted this late last night, then deleted it this morning (10/20), thinking it was too negative.  Gee, it’s a blog about writing, I thought.  How can I post a poem about hating words?  That’s not veryencouraging.  But perhaps it was only those old inner critics rearing their ugly heads.  Those guys never quit.  Perhaps they’re best stomped on and I should let freedom ring.  So here goes:   (Thanks to Barbara and Kathy!)

I hate words   

Pale puny things.

How inadequate.

How thin.

How weak an antidote.

I turn to them;

I rush and hide and hope,

but they are only black lines on white pages–symbols, not saviors,

measly metaphors standing in for the poison of my pain

as if they will cast me a line, a way out of here.

How often I run to them, seeking deliverance while I know none is to be had,

even here, in that place I know best

where urge meets page

and words unveil that particular something,

which is better than doing nothing at all.

Teeth?

Yes, teeth.

It’s hell to be young.  Pretty stories of youth abound, mostly phoney.  Movies show us thin archetypes, while inside our young heads are too many questions paired with untrustworthy answers.  It seems the land of milk and honey is blocked off for us.  We don’t have the right gear, the proper password, the insider knowledge, a thoughtful guide.  You can’t find the road on any map.

Can you remember those days, those feelings, that emotional chaos with few handholds?  How did you survive?

Nothing to write about?  That’s so often the first thought, and yet I’ve come to believe that if you look, there are interesting messages all around you.  Some of them you’ve left for yourself.  Some of them turn up unexpectedly.  Some are left by other people using the language to create.  Meaning lurks!  Here’s what I found.  I’d love to hear what you find.

Notes from my Keyboard

I look down.  “Zoom,” my computer keyboard says. And I imagine taking off, my arms as wings, and I soar into the bluest of skies.

My keyboard gives me many commands.

Redo!  I am pleased to hear this.  Whew.  I don’t have to get things right the first time.

Save!  I believe this is the moral thing to do.  I consider saving whales, plastic bottles, and starving children.  So far, I think I’m okay on the bottles.

Help!  Perhaps if I hit this button, answers will come.  How do I find meaning in life?  What are the right choices?  Where are the limits?

Control!  I take this as a command to butch up.  Stop whining!  You’re the one whose fingers are laying this line of type.  It’s up to me to help and save, even if I have to redo. 

Then perhaps I can zoom.

Yes it was a failure, but it was one that taught me so much.

I have a story that involves a rabbit named Jack Bunny. Actually, I have many stories about Jack. He appeared when my kids were going to day care, and I was working full time. Yes, this was some time back.

Like all mom’s, I had ambivalent feelings about dropping my kids off at day care, but was soothed to know that they enjoyed their time there. Perhaps to assuage my own mixed feelings, I began to spin tales at night of the magical rabbit, Jack Bunny, who showed up at daycare, hid in the bushes, whispered to my kids, and then took them out on adventures. One touch of his paw, and they were magically transported through time and space to…wherever I could think of!

Perhaps this is new territory for you, but then again, I’ve discovered that the older I get, the more the old stories have valuable warmth and charm. Besides, I’m better at letting go and just writing now, coming along with the words to see what happens. So, if you care to join me, I will start Jack and the kids off on another adventure here. I invite you to put in your two cents, not because I need you to, but because it occurred to me that your wonderful minds, hearts, and skills might delight in spinning these tales along with me. This is for fun–for the young at heart who know no irony or sarcasm but who love adventure, a yearning for the unimaginable, and the sense that anything can happen at any time.

—

It was a Tuesday. Carrie was happy it was not Monday, but then again, it wasn’t Thursday either—the day before Friday which was the day before Saturday—the day the family got to be all together at home. On the other hand, she liked the day care—lots of kids to play with–and Wylie showed up after his day in first grade for the last two hours of the day rather than going home to the empty house, and this made her proud. She had a big brother, and he was fun.

The playroom clocked chimed three—time to go outside and play on the equipment, run races, and be loud. (No hollering inside.) Wylie would show up soon, and after that, Mom would come after work was done. Carrie ran outside, looking from side to side to think of what to do. Play tag? Grab a swing? Climb the fort? Just then she heard a very welcome sound.

“Psst! Psst!” Someone was hissing from the azalea bushes. “Psst! Carrie!”

“Jack!” Carrie ran over, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure no one saw. “What’s up?”

“I’m on my way to ride a cyclone. Do you want to come?”

Carrie’s eye lit up. “Oh. A cyclone! Like Dorothy in the “Wizard of Odds.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Yes, something like that. We’ll pick Wylie up as he leaves Windsor Elementary. Touch my paw, and let’s go!”

There used to be a magazine called “The Saturday Review” (I think that’s right). It was about literary things and writers—quite popular as I remember it in the l960s. One of my favorite parts was a monthly column that had a photo of a famous writer’s work space. You could see the typewriter, the stacks of papers, the books. Some rooms were messy; others were quite tidy. It was a peek into a mysterious world for me, and so fascinating.

Well, here we all are, writing—and writing quite a bit it appears. Please share and show us the room where you write.