Full of It

Walking jumpstarts my brain.  I stick in my earbuds, crank up the iTunes and hit the pavement at a pace that’s not quite a jog, but close, and soon the voices are in my head.  Little scenarios come together, names, dialogue, one-liners start percolating, and I try not to get so engrossed that I trip on the cracked concrete and wipe out.

One particular day last fall, after reading Ralph Keyes “Courage to Write”, I was feeling like an almost-real writer.  I was feelin’ fine. .  In fact I was flying high, pumped up by those natural,  feel-good chemicals that exercise releases into your system.

When I got home, I quickly clicked out the following little verse with my sweaty fingers.   It was my idea of the creative writing process that Keyes described.  (I should add this has been published by The Storyteller in it’s Oct/Nov/Dec 2012 issue)

“Full of It”

Ha!

Today I am a writer.

The empty page double-dog dared me to try it, just try it.

And I did.

I trembled, but I did not faint. I cursed and pleaded, but did not relent.

And then, eureka!

A young man’s face seen in the bleachers of a football game,

A snippet of preteen female gossip, stored away,

 Met and fell in love.

And they begat sentences, and the sentences begat paragraphs.

 And it was good.

Then the wall rose before me.

I bemoaned my failure to look ahead

To the end of the path, which now was twisted

And darkened and full of briars, barring my return.

Emergency measures were called for.

Psyche arrived,

Like acid bubbling up from my gut at night, making me clench my teeth,

Swallowing quickly so it doesn’t spill out between my lips.

But this time  I loosed my jaw, and there on the page,

It was me all over.

I tidied the edges,

Careful not to pretty it too much, stifling my worries,

Persuading myself that Mom will still love me,

Even when the neighbors ask

If she ever got help for that drinking problem.

 

Yes, today I am a writer.

My darling, swaddled in a golden sleeve,

flies to those who can never love her as I can,

But hopefully will not desecrate her as much as I fear. 

I sigh with sadness, joy and fear,

And turn to face the empty page.

Yeah, it’s a little tongue-in-cheek.  I can see in retrospect, it ain’t no masterpiece, but I will always treasure this as the first piece I ever had published, and a reminder of that glorious feeling of being a ‘real’ writer.