
I've been a really bad poet lately. Bad in the sense of, "um...did she really mean to say, 'the universe whispers to me' or is she being ironic?" and bad in the sense of not actually writing. The trouble is, I got derailed by some criticism last December. It wasn't really a big deal, but I basically turned it into a one-woman union strike.
So, the progress of my book with Patrick has been, well, suffering to say the least, in the wake of this unintentional strike. But I got a lovely, unexpected message from Mike G the other day which said, "You will get this done. You will be proud of it. It will be beautiful and high-quality, an aspect of yourself made manifest in the world...you have gifts to share and it's good and right to share them."
It's a good thing he sent that message because moments before, I was busy chewing on my hair and rocking under my desk. It's press week and the coffee machine is broken (see above pic). So, I have already managed to yell or growl at everyone who has been unfortunate enough to come into my office. On Monday, I had to go the Chevron and buy my assistant editor coffee and cigarettes because I was nasty to him. I didn't mean to be. I actually like him.
So, I've been a little off my mark lately. It's been a classic case of "all work and no play," which has turned me into one dull little Hollyanna. While on this hiatus from writing, I have been flooded with advice from well-meaning friends and acquaintances hoping to get me back on the wagon. Among them:
"Write something every day. Even if it's crap."
"Go back to the basics. Write an acrostic poem about your name."
"Take your favorite song and re-write it into a poem."
"Stand at the bus stop and listen to other people's conversation. Write about that."
"Go to every open mic you can find. Get there early. Stay until the last poet has read. Don't even get up for cigarettes." (Personally, I can't think of anything more frightening)
"Write down a random, stream-of-conscience sentence every hour for 8 hours. Put them together into a poem."
"Do poem exchanges with your friends."
"Fuck poetry. Start writing limericks."
And my personal favorite,
"Fuck poetry. Fuck open mics. Let's go get a drink."
Some people go with the standard, "Keep you pen moving" advice, which I get. It just doesn't really work for me. I have recently come to find out that I'm not a real poet. By that I mean, I don't live the poet lifestyle. I don't live down in the muck and mire. I get in, I do my thing, and I get out. (Jaime and I got into a deep discussion about this last night where I drunkenly compared it to bowel movements, but I'll spare you the details.) My point is, I usually wait until inspiration strikes, hammer out a poem or a story in an hour or so and then walk away from it.
So, the question remains: What to do when inspiration doesn't strike? Do I set up residency in the muck? Am I even capable of doing that? Do I wait it out? Or do I take my friend's advice and get a drink?
The jury's still out. Until then, I'll be in the bar.
