“Avoid self-pity like the plague!” Nelson Bentley would remind us. Often I fail at this, instead winding down into the woe-is-me, the morose melodrama. Like this morning, writing in my car in the parking lot, the air mist-heavy, that fall darkness like a sack of stones on my shoulders.
But it’s okay, I finally realized. Writing makes more writing, so a day or a week of bad writing might just be the throat-clearing I need, the stuff that I have to get out of the way before I can open up to the writing that offers potential, that might become something. That bad writing might even have a few image fruits and roots that I can harvest later. I don’t have to worry about that now.
If I can focus on the writing–the act of writing–and not on finishing a poem, I’ll prime the pump for more writing. I just need to keep faith that the good stuff will come.
This might be obvious, but I find I need reminders, especially as the days grow shorter.