How many
pages, how many
notebooks, how many words
and characters, how many mornings and
how many nights, how many pens with ink in purple
and blue and black and red, and how many bursts to organize
time, how many resolutions in the new year to gain discipline, how
many books read on craft and character, how many for the love of fiction
alone and how many ideas started and stopped, how many born full term only
to rest in isolation, how many sweet scenes, how many sad, how many sweet,
sexy flashing bright contacts and how many spirits whispering secrets into sand and sea
and deaf ears, how many children meeting other children, how many conferences
or contacts with other writers and how many web sites and articles and wishes
and dreams and tears of frustration, and how many blank pages faced
bravely, cowardly, tentatively, and how many ‘ly’ words slashed
unceremoniously and how many times on my knees before
gods and great spirits will it take to claim my writing self
and put her in the middle
of my life?
PS–In this picture I was writing in my notebook on a train in Canada during our Oyate adventures. It must have been ten years ago now. How many tables have I sat at and scribbled in a notebook?
LOVE THIS!!! It sounds like you were writing about me…