My bride and I are attending the Houston Symphony tonight. They are performing in conjunction with footage provided by National Geographic and we are both very excited. Needless to say, today’s poem was inspired by my excitement and expectations. The idea of something so decidedly human as music juxtaposed to imagery of that which is untouched by man brings to mind thoughts of our relationship with nature and nature’s relationship with itself.
I’ve had several people dear to me reaching out lately and it’s meant a lot. It’s also got me thinking about what a terrible communicator I am and how bad I am at staying in touch to let my friends and family know that I value them. Definitely something to work on because those messages, like the people they are intended for, are worth it.
I was reading an article this morning about decoherence and I’m how countless uncontrollable environmental factors are the key reason why we don’t yet have effective quantum computers. The short version is that there are so many outside influences that the absurdly delicate and complicated machinery goes wonky halfway through trying to calculate anything that’s worth being calculated. It got me thinking about our own communication with each other.
In his book “On Writing” Stephen King describes the process of writing as an act of telepathy that transcends time and space. I love this idea. I also see that it’s not entirely accurate because even though you are reading the thoughts that I have put here directly from my brain, there are countless environmental factors that will influence your perception of this writing, to say nothing of your own internal translation process. My thoughts are not your thoughts and decoding them for your mind to process will doubtless create a degree of translational dissonance.
In essence, it’s small wonder that we’re able to effectively communicate at all when you consider just how easy it is to misunderstand one another.
Confession. I hate yesterday’s poem. I’m sure I’m not alone as a poet who occasionally produces something he or she is unhappy with. I kept waiting for inspiration to strike me with something better and it never came. Lesson learned: push forward anyway. Momentum is more important than perfection. I’m beginning to suspect that I’m a rather dense student because this lesson seems somewhat familiar by this point.
In that spirit of moving forward, here are the poems for both 162 and 163.
I wanted to write about prosperity and this is what came out…
I was contemplating the nature of control this morning and realized that I have several personal hangups surrounding it that I need to work on. One of which is the struggle with the idea that I am not the author of my own life, but rather the protagonist in my own story. It’s an interesting reframing that’s given me much to think on and at the same time is more than a little freeing.
Another Untitled piece because for the life of me I couldn’t come up with one. I’m open to suggestions if you have any.
This morning finds me thinking on the buildup before a big decision. Sometimes the decision is yours. Sometimes it is someone else’s. Sometimes they are very big decisions and sometimes they are small but significant decisions and sometimes there is more than one occurring at once.
I had an interesting conversation with my bride about expressions we each thought of as synonymous yet which each of us understood differently. In particular our standard responses to the common question “How was your day?” provided the inspiration for today’s poem.
I’ve got a bit of backlog again. I’ve been writing but not publishing my writing as I should. I’d intended to spread out several of these backed up poems out over the course of the day but the day had other plans. So did the next. And it has been brought to my attention that when a backlog such as this occurs, that those following his blog do not like being suddenly inundated with multiple updates. So, here is my attempt at compromise. One post. Three poems. Today’s own post will follow shortly.
This poem was written in an effort to recapture the loss of the poem, Creative’s Career, which I started in a moment of inspiration that was cut short and the scrap of paper I’d written it down on was thought lost. While the opening is very similar, It ultimately became its own thing. Every time I finish a book, my mind is overwhelmed with ideas. Many of them for entirely new projects or for things I’ve set aside to do later when often what I need to do most is push forward onto the next book in whatever series I’ve started. So many ideas. So many stories to tell. It’s a little overwhelming.
I have been my own worst enemy with my writing. I’ve said before that part of the reason I use pennames is because they give me permission to fail. Permission to simply write. In essence, when I go into a piece knowing that I am going to publicly claim it as my own, I am writing from a place of fear and I think it is undermining my efforts. That got me thinking about the nature of fear and courage and what is required of me with regards to both if I am to succeed as a professional creative. Perhaps what is required of many of us going forward.
There is a principle in professional investing that is difficult for many to wrap their heads around, let alone embrace, and which I feel applies to many areas of life. Diversify your investments. Bleed money. Aim wide. The idea is that you’re waiting for something called a “black swan,” which is to say the rare and unpredictable success. Something is going to do well eventually and it all boils down to a test of endurance. Waiting for that single critical moment to strike, the build off of. Then repeating the process over again.
Inspiration struck the other day when I didn’t have my notebook on me. I scribbled the beginning of this poem as fast as I could on a scrap of paper before being interrupted–life tends to do that–and then lost the paper. The feel of it stuck with me so hard though that it carried over into Day 157, which I completed late last night, and which became its own poem. Then this morning, as I sat down to do today’s poem, I found the missing scrap of paper and found myself able to complete Day 156’s poem.
It is so strange how we can get fixated upon things. I could have written another poem for Day 156, there’s no real reason I couldn’t have, yet this poem was meant to be today’s and in my mind replacing it somehow seemed to disrespect the original creation, absurd as that is. Which in and of itself is a feeling worth exploring as this poem is basically a rant at my passion and the process by which I must produce. So. Many. Ideas. And they all need to be done now now now. Not just because my muses are screaming at me, but because that is the professional creative climate in which I find myself.
I believe some re-evaluation of the best kind may be in order.
Everyone and everything has an opinion, it seems. Most of them are good and valid. What’s frustrating is when they are unsolicited and come from places, such as your own body and mind, that cannot be denied or ignored, and worse still when they are also opposed. Today has been a day of conflicting opinions and information. At this point, I’m over analyzing and optimization and ready to simply make things happen.
I am a writer. I write poetry and novels. Stories are my passion. Have been since I was a child.
I use pen names, pseudonyms, as much for marketing as to allow myself freedom to fail and be detached from my work. I’ve been taking steps this year to remove myself from that fear-driven mentality. I don’t think that I’ll ever give up pen names–as a self-publishing author they’re useful for brand recognition and marketing–but there are many ways to handle them and mindset matters.
Those thoughts got me thinking about other kinds of performers this morning. The strength that some of them generate by virtue of having to face that pressure to be perfect and doing their jobs anyway. What if they didn’t have to? Would they, and we as those who enjoy their performances, be better or worse for it?
The Everyday Poet 