When I’m working on a novel or short story and the words aren’t flowing I don’t see it as an obstacle. For me it’s a time do something different, something out of the ordinary, something wildly creative. It doesn’t have to follow rules or be correct. It is what it is: Imperfect and Perfect at the same time.
Photo by Sheila Horne
Strawberries.
Take a bite, make a list, pretend I’ll complete it. Turn on computer, turn on music,
get into the groove. Check email, open pen, open book, scribble word. Search
for another pen. Write about obstacles, scratch out line, add line, gaze
outside—snowflakes float.
Strawberries.
Take a bite, check plant, check window, check paper. Write, about dogs,
about cats, about slippery with bad news rising. Count paper clips.
Strawberries.
Take a bite, stand at window. Look south, north, east, west,
shift from foot to foot. Sit down. Write Jasmine blooms: brilliant,
too brilliant, too too brilliant like desire, un-attachment,
aversion, lust, scratch out blooming Jasmine.
Strawberries.
Take a bite draw flower add stem and leaves. Scratch out flower.
Write about loves lost, beaches, Beach Babies they called us.
Summer Boys I named them—he laughed. What were their names?
Forgotten—so long ago. Open holy water, sprinkle, make sign of cross,
visualize. Visualize what? Visualize chakra. Scribble word on new blank
page. Scratch word, scratch head, scratch arm. Write deluded deadline
on calendar.
Strawberries.
Take a bite, move box black and white with polka dots. Climb in-jump out.
Write goals pretend I’ll meet them, meet, meet, meet who? Where? When?
How? Kill adjectives,adverbs, verbs. No. Need verbs. Prepositions maybe.
Strawberries.
Take a bite, look at John Lennon framed on the wall. Look at Bob Dylan
framed on the wall. Ask them their thoughts on stifling people at tables
in restaurants. Watch a man shake off winter and tramp through slush searching
for house number nine. Number nine. That’s it—Beatles. Number nine. Dig deep
into my soul, my essence, my being. Write about spades about shovels, about hoes.
The ho reached for the john. The john reached for the ho. No soul. No essence.
No being. No ho. No john.
Strawberries.
Take a bite, close pen, close book, shut down mind—Perfection.