Three Presents for Creativity- (Not a Poem)

Occasionally I post something here that is NOT a poem! I am taking a creative writing course at our local college and was recently asked to give a presentation on some aspect of writing. I titled it “Three Presents”. Some of my fellow students asked me to post it somewhere so they could read it again, so I thought perhaps some of my blog readers might also be interested in it.

Three Presents for Creativity
I don’t have a lot of experience writing short stories or anything much longer than an occasional epic poem. But there are similar challenges and techniques in all forms of creative writing and since most of my success has been with songs and poetry, I’ll be drawing on that experience for this presentation. I call it a presentation because I will be giving you presents. My middle name is Jean. So this evening I’ll be a Jeannie and give you three presents.

One.
I used to wonder where the next inspiration would come from for a song or a poem and for a while it seemed that the harder I chased it, the faster it ran away. Then I realized that inspiration is very much like a skittish cat – chase it and it will dash up a tree and stay there untill you give up and walk away. Ignore it and soon it is in your lap, purring to be petted.

The first present I would like to give you is this

The song/poem/story is already written – all you have to do is remember it. 

This may sound simplistic, but if you truly believe that the piece is already written it takes a huge burden from your shoulders. You are not faced with the overwhelming, God-like task of creating something from nothing. All you have to do is remember. Will you need to edit? Yes, of course. You’ll probably need to do some rewrites before you’ve ‘remembered’ it clearly.

Two.
The classic stereotype of a writer is one who struggles and strains to capture something and put it down on paper, who closets himself or herself away from the world and “Writes”, with a capital W. The struggle is self imposed, the isolation unnecessary.

The second present is this-

Keep your creative well topped up and you will never lack for inspiration.

You are a spiritual being on a human journey. Your creativity knows no bounds but the ones you impose upon it. Inspiration and ideas dangle around you like ripe fruit on the vine. It is the creative water that fills your well. The well that you draw upon when you take pen in hand or sit at your keyboard. Allow yourself the luxury of observing, enjoying, and participating in new and different experiences and your senses will soak up creative water like a sponge.

Three.
Some writers are accused of treating their work like it was their child – and by this it is meant that they are oversensitive and protective – as though anything but praise is a personal affront. Instead of considering a critique, they immediately jump to the defense of their baby. Is it wrong to be so connected to your writing?

Present number three –

Yes, you are the parent of your work, and good parents know when to let go.

When a child is young, parents are protective and that is the proper way to be. But as a child matures, a parent must stand back and allow the child to stand alone, to become her own entity. It’s the same with writing. If you are still overprotective of your writing then your writing must still be as a small child. Take it home and nurture it, train it in the way it should go, and when it is ready to stand alone you will find the critiques that stung before are now just interesting perspectives and helpful suggestions that you and your writing can use to grow and become strong. 

If you want to write then the most important thing to do is to actually write. Don’t plan to write, don’t schedule your writing, don’t wait untill the perfect plot lands in your lap. Write now. Write about anything and everything. Write everyday.

Write On!

I would also like to give credit where credit is due. I found Julia Cameron’s book “The Artist’s Way” to be pivotal in my development as a writer. I recommend it to anyone who wants to discover and nurture their creative soul. Her website is at http://juliacameronlive.com/

Spring Ambush

Faint goose honk at edge of hearing,
soft chinook arch crowns the sky.
Wobbly fawn at edge of clearing,
baby coyotes croon and cry.

Redwing blackbird’s liquid chuckle,
rushing water’s roiling ring.
Crow returns with cocky ruckle,
peeper frogs begin to sing.

Pussywillows, silver glowing,
green haze limns the poplar trees.
Hush, child, listen, grass is growing,
Spring is ambushing the Peace.

#93

note: (I live in northern British Columbia, in an area called the Peace. Spring is a trickster here, sometimes you’re not sure if it’s really here until summer!)

Awakening

Some days I think I understand what it must be like
to wake up from a coma,
groping for the past, staring into the mirror
only to see a stranger staring back.

Some days I think I understand what it must be like
to live in a foreign country,
everyone waving hands and talking gibberish
until I speak, and they stare at me, puzzled.

Some days I think I understand what it must be like
to be a sleepwalker,
restless pacer, blind seeker,
doomed to endlessly retrace a pointless journey.

Then your laughter rushes in to fill the gaps,
you smile in a language we both understand, and
the beating of your heart sings me to sleep.

#92

One Bird’s Trash

I found a feather,
bright blue resting lightly on the grass,
a swatch of the sky drifted to earth.
I gathered it up for wonder.

I found a feather,
yellow gold, glowing on the dirt road,
a shard of the sun, a celestial hitchhiker.
This too I gathered.

I found a feather,
iridescent black, lodged in the pansies,
a nail paring of night sky, hiding from the day.
I gathered again.

I wove the feathers into my nest of memory
and never again wondered
why some birds steal tinfoil.

 

#91

Fibonacci Rules

I?
I
do
not
think
that form
poetry is a less
valid expression of true
emotion or insight than vers libre poems,
do you? There is a symmetry
to it. Fibonacci
makes our
poems
fit
to
a
t

#89

Fibonacci – the sum of the number of letters in the last two lines equals the number of letters in the next line (I also reversed this). So start with 0 and 1, 0+1=1, 1+1=2, 2+1=3, 3+2=5 etc….(1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21…)

Seasons of Love

Our love sings to my heart
in the trickling chuckle of a redwing blackbird
proclaiming the promise of a dawning spring.

Our love clings to my heart
with the sweet scent of lilacs, nodding, langourous
in the still warmth of a summer garden.

Our love plays on my heart
like a phantom melody at the edge of memory,
and the sound of leaves falling.

Our love cradles my heart
as a layer of snow protects the slumbering lilac,
patiently awaiting the seasons of love.

 

#89

Leave Breadcrumbs

Never trust an early spring,
a lover who works late,
or directions that end in “you can’t miss it”.
Because you can.

You can miss it so fast that one day you look up
and it’s so gone that you almost
forget you ever had it.

You can miss it so easily that one day you turn around
and it’s so not there that you nearly
doubt it ever was.

You can miss it so deeply that one day you wake up
and it’s so far away that you might
think it was just a dream

Bring a sweater.
Change the locks.
Write your own directions.
Leave breadcrumbs.

 

#86

The Moment in Forever

How we used to travel.
We would pack up the equipment and a suitcase
and just drive,
map on my knee,
radio playing a good old song,
your left elbow resting on the edge
of the open window.
You always had a driver’s sunburn
on your left arm.
You wore shades and a hat and
a confident cowboy smile
and time slowed down and
spun around us and if I had to choose
a moment to live in forever it would be
driving deserted prairie roads,
sun beating down,
Hank on the radio,
you at the wheel,
me at the map,
the world spread out before us.

 

#85