Sometimes, I feel that I am losing my touch, that my writing misses the mark, that my poetry is mediocre at best. Though I keep the anxiety at a distance, plugging away at the keypad day after day, I fear my muse is gone.
Where? Off to a new lover, perhaps? Leaving me to fend for myself in a world of so many homeless words, while she rolls in the sheets, her longing eyes gazing into another soul. Or on holiday? Off to some ancient island roaming the ruins of a forgotten world, snapping photos in a summer dress, her hair flipped to the side with dark curls spiraling down her left shoulder, a yellow flower in her right ear, her head tilted to the ground with a coy smirk, knowing her beauty is irresistible. Or hiding, having joined the resistance, in some underground fortress, plotting a way to take down the system that oppresses the masses, wearing fatigues, gun in a sling and a belt of weapons around her waist.
If only she would post cards: even dream fragments or random words taken from an epic poem, and I would swoon again.
The art and practice of writing challenges me to keep an open channel for inspiration while also sticking to a discipline of writing whether or not I feel inspired. I love those times when a poem or piece appears almost in its entirety, an effortless flow from some unknown source.
More often, I plug away in my daily practice, cultivating the craft of waiting for words to come while also writing whatever appears. It is a strange state, at once active and passive, both present and absent.
What practice do you do daily whether or not you "feel" like doing it?
© Nick LeForce
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