Sorry that I didn't post anything yesterday. I spent more than 11 hours working on my annual Christmas essay. A long day of trying to create something. It was the normal thing--I try to throw everything, including the kitchen sink, into my essay, and hope that it all comes together in the end.
Well, I started writing at 7 a.m., and by 6 p.m., I had something that passed muster. At least, I think it does. Today has reminded me of something, though: writing is hard work. Writer Carlos Ruiz Zafon says this on the subject:
It's hard work, writing, you know. Honestly, a fight every day against your own limitations. You have to squeeze books out of your brain, you're constantly trying to solve challenges. I think most writers enjoy the feeling of having written something, rather than the process of writing it.
I would agree with that sentiment. I like what I've gotten down on paper, but the process of creation has been painful today, moving in fits and starts. That's the way it has been for the past month with me. Blog posts take me hours, and a six-page, single-spaced essay--at least two or three very long days.
But, my essay is done, and I can move onto my next writing project: my annual Christmas poem. I don't want to even think about how long that is going to take me. I love writing--even when it is difficult. When I know that I'm going to be scribbling away in my journal, or stabbing at my keyboard, I am always filled with a wonderful kind of anticipation.
Here is a snapshot of my day:
- Got up at 7 a.m. and started writing. Not sure if what I wrote was beautiful, but it felt good.
- Led a rehearsal for a reader's theater Zoom production of A Christmas Carol, and got to watch ten beautiful, talented actors perform.
- My beautiful little sister (-in-law) Cori picked up our grocery order for us this evening.
- Watched the beautiful Christmas move Love Actually tonight.
Quarantine continues to bring all kinds of blessings into my life, even if those blessings come with struggle.
Marty really is a lucky, lucky saint.
. . . and a poem from a few years ago:
Bigfoot Noel
He slouches through this night,
an eclipse of hair and muscle and foot,
guided by some wild nova
in the chambers of his Neanderthal
chest. It’s an ancient story,
Precambrian even, about ice,
juniper berry in the deadest of winter.
Digging through dermal frost
to root and worm. Mushroom
caps in frozen moss, strips
of pine gnawed into sweet paste.
And moon held in knuckles of sumac.
Yes, it’s about need and hunger,
a bottomless lake carved by glacier.
It’s wilderness, the blind
sound of nebulae exploding seventy
million miles a day. Ice Age. Meteor
rain. Seraphim screaming hosannas
over panicked rams. Starlight and manure.
The coming of Something
ferocious, untamable.
He knows all this somehow,
the way he knows where salmon leap, spawn.
He stands at the edge of a clearing,
stares up, into the hills, toward
an empty cave. He tilts back
his head, opens his throat, sings a song
for the evolution of love.
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| image by satanfudge.com |
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