Stepping Out...

Today, I'm working on my book of poems. I must get done with these many writing projects I have, as I have learned from other writer friends, that it doesn't help to talk about it, just do it. And this book of poems is long overdue...

So....here we are. I am just DOING IT.

My first task is to assemble all of my poems, gosh! I must have at least 100 of them floating about in every place in my home: in drawers, in books and tablets; in cardboard boxes, in plastic file boxes, in metal file cabinets--there everwhere, and some have been hiding from me for a very long time...who knows where they may be...

It's not easy to be a person who deems themselves as a creative and abstract thinker. Those who are similarly composed will understand what I mean. There are usually signs of a creative process, or at least, a brewing of some kind before the actual writing down of it...

Many times, I notice I have these strange occurences that go on inside me. For instance, I may at times, be very organized, even dictatorial about what must get done. Then, suddenly I sense a stalling coming...

I don't take well to instruction. I notice that when I have a more difficult time with instruction it is usually because there is some creative process brewing inside me, and I can't box my abstract juices into concrete containers. In fact, I become rather uncooperative to the norm. I don't want to do or go where I had planned, I don't want to talk to anyone, and I don't want to be disturbed as I am thinking or brewing, or ruminating, or whatever it is that alerts me to this process. Suddenly, the ... creative muse arrives...

I begin to pace slowly, and images come into my mind; not words, but images. I begin to feel emotions that are kin to these images, and I might appear to an onlooker as though I am meditating, or reminiscing....but I am in some way assembling....images, emotions, meaning...sometimes it could even be ignited by a news story I read, or a commentary on something or someone's ideas...

Much of the time I am in a total state of silence, even the radio or music I usually listen to, is off....Other times, I put on music, and wander....yes, wander about in my home, as though I was waiting for someone, or perhaps not necessarily waiting for someone, for the muse is already there. It is more like I am listening to the muse, formulating the images and emotions into a coherent structure of thought. And then, I write...

Poets are very strange people sometimes. They won't admit it always, but their behavior seems foreign to the average person. Sometimes I find that I purposely do not answer phone calls, or keep a casual date with a friend, or go to the planned event I had wanted to go to...I simply can't. I have to write...





Usually, if the process leads to the structure and the completion of a poem, or two, or more, I am refreshed and go about my business of doing the "normal" things. Other times, I feel drained, and have to put my self into a position of vegetation, like watching tv, or reading, or looking at pictures that make me smile at the memories I have of the event and people in the pictures...I am finished....for a while...

Most of the themes I find myself revisiting are themes of love, of nobility, heroism, sacrifice; of loss, of memories about the human spirit and all that we have to journey through in life; of heightened admiration of some other person's heroism, or heartaches, or heightened admiration of a quality of a memory about a situation or an event. It isn't like I plan to go these directions always, nor do I always choose who I write about--although honestly, I CAN do that sometimes as well. Sometimes I'll choose something I want to communicate to readers, and it may take more than one time, or poem, or story, to get the theme or idea across to my reader. But most of the time, my writing turns out to be within those types of themes. I am forever enthralled by the nature and stature of the human spirit, the heart of someone who manages to get through horrendous things, and the pain that so many people live silently through, yet continue to provide help and joy to others.



I remember a lot. And yet, I forget simple things that I was doing, or people I had wanted to call, or errands I was supposed to complete. But the memories stay with me like it happened to me yesterday. I see faces, and hear people saying things they said that meant so much to me. I look at the mountains and trees, and I feel the breezes that sometime come, or just feel the heat or the cold, and get lost in the moment. Most people don't even know what goes on in the life of someone like me, because they see the OTHER me that is intune, cooperative, busy, hard-working, astute, personable, and all the other things all of us are. So, it is possible that all of us are like me in these SECRET times, only many may not actually entertain those moments and spend much time with the muse. I feel it is my calling, to hear the muse, see the images, and record the event of my findings.

It doesn't matter if others may see my writings as trivial. It excites my soul and revives my spirit when I write something I want to express to the reader. I am cleansed in a very special way. It is just something I have to do. And when I am finally done for the moment, I usually want to get out and dance, or visit, or meet with others, and I am completely full of life's wonderful activities....that is when I tell my self: it's time for steppin out...

I just wanted to share this with you, because....