When I am not writing poetry -
when I am punishing myself, or cozying up with fear or self-doubt -
I arrange my life so as not to be alone with my thoughts. My silence-filler of choice is books. I am embarassingly promiscuous in my efforts. I will go to the public library and fill up with anything and everything I can get my hands on - the schlockier, the better (the point is not edification, but distraction). Mysteries, thrillers, romance, even Westerns, for God's sake.
This winter, it stopped working. I couldn't move my eyes across the page - couldn't take in another sentence. Okay, fine; I upped the ante. I started reading literature in foreign languages. The extra effort required seemed to work for awhile. I read Sabato's El Tunel in Spanish, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in Urdu (don't laugh - it's hard to find literature in Urdu that is conversational enough for me to forego a dictionary). I even tried to resuscitate my college German, memorizing pages of vocabulary and reacquainting myself with maddeningly complex declensions of nouns and pronouns. Enough. I am done with it.
In the past, I have been able to find my way back to my own silence by tricking my mind into thinking I am busy. Swinging on a hammock often works; "Hey, I'm moving! Clearly I'm being productive, no need to panic." Long walks sometimes work. A non-stressful, longish commute works really well. None of these things require sustained, higher-order reasoning, but they require just enough physical engagement to pass for "doing something". No commute this year, no hammock, it's hideous outside. I need a new strategy.
*Elaine Equi, "Can't Complain."
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2 comments:
Hi laura, it's brenda from WPF. Every so often I check your blog to see how you're doing.
So, you're trying to get back into the writing zing. I spend my life with that struggle. I wish that i could offer you something to help, sometimes I just have to sit down and write. nothing special, nothing poetic, nothing important, sometimes I just bore myself to death and I just keep boring myself to death until I'm dead tired of boring myself to death.
You'll find your way, my dear.
Brenda, you are a dear friend. Thank you for visiting. I will try your strategy of boring myself to death. It just might work for me. When I am my own captive audience, with no other materials for entertainment but pen and paper, I usually do end up writing. When I had to drive to Old Town to pick up my older son from school every day last year, I purposefully brought only a notebook and pen for the long wait in the parking lot. That worked so well. But it's a new year, and I'm hopeful - ready to dip my toe back in the water.
Love,
Laura
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