“I am always writing writing.” Gertrude Stein
Tonight I could not sleep. I was writing writing in my wired mind without a page or a devise to capture the many words flooding me.
Writing as passion. Writing as capturing what is alive inside. Finding a thread in the air and following it through the nervous system. Like William Stafford did early mornings. Well, it’s early morning. Writing to find out what we mean. Writing to make sense. Writing to connect to others. Writing as inquiry.
What do you write? People ask writers. For me there are constant journal notes: dreams, quotes, scenes, lists, notations of this or that. Poetry that forms in sketches. Fiction that struggles onto the page with it’s many details and stories that want editing. Demands an editor like a hungry child demands food.
And, this writer loves hand-to-page writing on large pads. My mantra, hand-to-page. This writer believes that writing, and art comes directly from our nervous system. A quake that runs through us. Have you looked around this website? It is a nervous system that is flooded, spilling. So in the journal are the formations of the hand, some call drawings, some call doodles. Virginia Woolf had drawings in the corners of her pages. We draw, we write, they are connected. We breathe and that too is connected to our writing, our art. For ten years I led run Muse To Write Circles. Hand-to-page exploration with movement. There is no such thing as writer’s block. Really.
So what does it mean to blog? I’m figuring that out here now. Blogging intimidates me. To write on a page that goes public instantly. When I first heard the term it sounded strange. It is not the privacy of a journal. To blog. What does that mean? Why would anyone blog? In a writer’s group years ago I was told to blog. I was sat down at a desk and shown how to start a site. I wasn’t ready. Am I ready now? Now that I have this website/blog and another blog and sites that have blogs I can easily use. We are in a blog fever.
Blog Fever has me up hours into the night writing writing. Am I ready for this? Must be.
In blogging there is the voyeurism. Being watched in one’s creativity. Certainly an audience is wanted by a writer. The writing is written to be read. Appreciated. Improved. Or perhaps to incite insight or knowledge or curiosity. Here an observer reads the blog influences the writer, hence a public. For this writer, a leap, to put words onto a blog.
One of my favorite quotes from Marina Tsvetaeva:
I had waited for the Pathfinder my whole life long, my whole, huge, seven-year old life.
It was the thing that waits for us at every turn of the road and of the corridor, that comes out from behind every clump in the forest and every corner of the street: the miracle into which the child and poet walk without thinking as if walking home, that one and only walk homeward that we have, for which we give up—all our family homes!
—Marina Tsvetaeva, A Captive Spirit: Selected Prose, edited and translated by J. Marin King (Ann Arbor, Mich.: Ardis, 1980), p. 372
This resonates with me about my starting to blog. I’ve been path seeking, walking and seeing, since an early time always away from my family home. To blog is the next step in this journey. But this quote goes deeper than blogging as a step in my life, it is about the quintessential step into the core of the self through a universal connection.
To finish I return to one of my all time favorite poets to share a poem about poems & writing. Enjoy and good morning.
An Introduction to Some Poems
Look: no one ever promised for sure
that we would sing. We have decided
to moan. In a strange dance that
we don’t understand until we do it, we
have to carry on.
Just as in sleep you have to dream
the exact dream to round out your life,
So we have to live that dream into stories
and hold them close to you, close at the
edge we share, to be right.
We find it an awful thing to meet people,
serious or not, who have turned into vacant
effective people, so far lost that they
won’t believe their own feelings
enough to follow them out.
The authentic is a line from one thing
along to the next; it intersects us.
Strangely, it relates to what works,
but it is not quite the same. It never
serves for revenge,
Or profit, or fame; it holds
together something more than the world,
this line. And we are your wavery
efforts at following it: Are you coming?
Good: Now is the time.
William Stafford, Someday Maybe, 1973