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I am a writer. I am a poet. I am also a failure every day.
There is a myth about publishing, that once you get published, the writing becomes easier. I know that can’t be true. I’ve read enough blogs from authors to know this, but I’ve had days recently in which I’ve felt like I’ll never write another good poem. Ever.
I think the problem lies in how I am approaching my writing life these days. I expect to be motivated. I expect the words to come. And when they don’t, I feel a flood of failure. The kind that whispers in my head, “You will never write again.”
I’ve had writing partners go through this and my advice is always, give it time, take a break, go for a walk. These are all things I give myself permission to do, but when it goes on for days and days, it’s cause for concern.
Early in the morning sitting with my coffee and Charlie on my lap, I looked outside and said to myself, “How is it the cypress trees know that it’s September?”
I didn’t have my notebook. It was in my school bag in the trunk of my car. I didn’t want to go outside with bare feet to get it. And besides, I was worried the muse would escape if I did that. So I grabbed a nearby pad of paper and wrote a quick poem. This simple response relieved my writer’s block. Still when I went back to my work in progress, things were no better, but I calmed my disdain with my new poem. I got up and went to the study where I keep the old typewriter my son-in-law bought me at an estate sale and plinked the September poem, cut it out, and glued it into a beautiful handmade journal I reserve for these private musings. Ah, there.
Reflections on the Teche 