Hello Writers, Readers, Thinkers & Feelers,
How are you — I mean, really?
These are the spiral days. The pandemic surges on, nerves fray, winter feels chronically gray, and the mood is a long swirling plummet.
Maybe this is not your story. Maybe you’re meeting up, dining out, and thriving. Your creativity is off the charts, your skin is glowing, your hair bouncing, and your body is leaner and cleaner than ever.
Good for you. I’m not there and I envy your ease.
We’re in fractured worlds, and I’m among those living with health conditions. We tread lightly and with trepidation, while the rest of the world feels healthy and strong, sure they’ll recover from a health bump in an otherwise smooth road.
Because nearly every topic now divides, I no longer share my worries, details or opinions. I’m trying not to sneer at the unmasked and unconcerned. But it’s hard to hold back the fear and frustration. And really, aren’t we all exhausted?
Among writer-friends, I’m seeing a new sort of writer’s block — a creative numb. Externally, the world swirls in a succession of bad events and information while internally the creative world plods along weary and worn.
I feel like I’m living this poem:
The Well
It's not that the well's run dry.
The walk feels too far. It's uphill
in the snow both ways, and
who has the strength to carry
those dangling buckets balanced
on their shoulders now? I'll stay
on this secondhand chair, wrapped
in my mother's holey shawl.
Make another cup of tea, stay quiet.
Grief sits with me by the fire.
Out the window, tiny birds track
hieroglyphics across the icy ground.
This week our writing group-by-email was prompted to write a list poem. The work trickled in slowly and, well, listless. This poem seemed to capture our collective mood:
Nothing Today
No juncos.
No kudos.
No innuendoes.
No Spaghettios.
No crows.
No jokes.
No hope.
No hoboes.
No heroes.
No romance.
No spotted thrushes.
No applesauce.
No asparagus.
No appurtenances.
No tennis shoes.
No aphorisms.
No witticisms.
No chickadees.
No maladies.
No vitamins.
No robins.
No ravens.
No eagles.
No sea gulls.
No guile.
No homilies.
No similes.
No turns.
No terns.
No adverbs.
No apologies.
No advertisements.
No boots.
No coots.
No comment.
No point.
Tell me: How do you keep the pen moving along the page? (Yes, I still prefer pen and paper). How’s your writing, your head, your heart?
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The world turns on words, please read & write.