Prompt # 82

Its cool and beautiful out this morning. The crows came to me where I sat outside while the cat made his rounds, patrolling the property. Today I am thinking about all of the good words I got yesterday and grateful for the support that came my way, encouragement and great kindness. What a gift.

I had a friend who recently was a little harsh about the writing. The words, you are writing came out a little bit like you've been mowing the same lawn again  or worse, you are still smacking puppies around. There were questions I never got a chance to answer about the training. About what I will or won't be using it for. It stung a little bit but here's what was so very different for me- , I already believe in it more than I don't. It being writing- it being dreaming-it being what I get to keep and make for my own for the rest of my days. So its too late for a friend, even one I admire, to pop that balloon. It's already flying. It was a surprise to feel how this knowing was in me, was strong enough that her words couldn't shake it. 

That's amazing and such an enormous shift. The kind that becomes a part of how  I see the world, the writing, myself. 

***

Often what I know and didn't realize I knew comes up in my writing. That's where the truth reveals itself and those are the best surprises even if they are fictioned truths.

What are the things you or your characters know or believe? 

(I have always hated that word, believe, but sometimes we can say believe when we can't say or claim the word know)

What are the things you or your character don't know or believe ? 

These are both powerful questions. 

You could make two lists-  

the first: Things I or she or he knows (or believes)                                                            the second: Things I or she or they don't know or believe.

These don't have to be big things. They don't have to make sense. You can let the playful up for this one. You can lay claim to things you don't know to try it on the page, or say you don't know things you do know and just play. There is no right or wrong way to do this writing. 

I know the toaster's secrets. I know how to fly. I don't know why gravity is always falling. I don't know my own voice. I know your skin tastes like cinnamon and smoke. 

You could list ten things on each list, or keep going if its flowing. When you are done making your lists, just read them and sit with them for a minute. 

See which ones pull at you, or which ones you hate. They might be the same or different. Then write or ten minutes or more. See what happens. This is a good prompt  to set a timer for. It may encourage you to go without thinking too much. You could set a three minute timer for your list making and a ten minute timer for the write. Or you can flip the timer off and write it your own way,in your own time. 

***

A clarification from yesterday's post- the emails will keep coming to your mail box. The sample prompt on the blog was for sharing with others if you feel moved to do that. 

Nothing will change about the emails except, perhaps better formatting at some point. Also I left out the most direct link for donation  (though there is one on the blog) 

Again a big thank you for those words of support yesterday that landed in my email box when I was most terrified about what I had just sent out. 

May this day, whether it's a work day or a play day or a writing day or all of those things be good to you and your creative.

The poem is the punctuation today. 

From an Atlas of the Difficult World

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Adrienne Rich