Tag Archives: artists

To Create

Creators and inventors
before our time
Could they have had an inkling
of what’s to come?

To understand our future
is to know our history
That’s what I tell the children
when they sigh in boredom

All the Haikus in the world
The undiscovered
scribbled poetry
Every painting made famous
long after the painter
left this realm

Can one word
one stroke
one snapshot
one chord
change the world?

The question as ridiculous
as toy glass

But we must continue to ask it

Don’t put away the pen
The world’s heart cannot survive without
it.

leonid_pasternak

Image courtesy of waldenwritingcenter.blogspot.com

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

Writer’s Cube

My writing muscle has kind of atrophied. Who was it that said there is no such thing as writer’s block? Was it Stephen King? Sylvia Plath? Oprah? When I first heard that I thought, “Bullshit”. But it only took me about 12 hours of off-and-on pondering to realize how freaking true it is.

It’s not that we don’t have anything to say. It’s that we have so much to say we don’t know where to begin or how to collect our thoughts. So we are incapacitated by this.

Kind of like I feel now.

I’ve had a few people encourage me to get back into writing. Because they are awesome supporters. And I have been pretty much off the grid for a while. I’ll explain the reason behind that at a later date. Maybe.

How I’ve missed typing these keys onto WordPress. But there’s so much pressure to be “perfect”. To say something that truly matters and inspires and is up to my own self-imposed standards. But what it boils down to at this point is that I just keep writing. Because when I stop it is not good.

It’s like a bubble is stuck in my throat. A block in my brain. And all I fantasize about at work is creating some form of art. I even daydream of coloring in a coloring book because at least then I would be doing something artsy. Even at the elementary level.

I even thought about writing at work. Like I used to do at every other job I ever had. Scribbled poems on the back of movie ticket paper. The outline of a story on a spare photo packet envelope. A line or two on a napkin at lunch break.

It doesn’t matter what you do for a living. The artist in you has to get out in some way or another. I remember writing poems at my very first job as a telemarketer in between cold calls. I even recited some of them to my stoned and bored coworkers. My fuzzy memory says they were impressed.

So here I am. Working out my writer’s muscle. I don’t want to block myself in. So maybe I’ll call it “writer’s cube”. Because at least then there is 3D space with which to create, fill, play.

writer's block

 

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Filed under Observations