Last year I lost something. I lost poetry. I didn't read it. I didn't write it. I felt it had let me down. I hated my own book, felt that it didn't say what I had wanted it to say. It all felt false and self-indulgent. And by extension, all other poetry felt that way to me. It wasn't real to me any more. I tried writing fiction, but I couldn't stick at it - I didn't think I could justify the indulgence. My notebooks were full of shopping lists and phone numbers, notes from phonecalls and meetings with healthcare professionals and social care organisations and charities. There was no poetry there for me, no stories - at least, none I was prepared to share, even with myself, no narratives I wanted to explore, because I didn't want to explore what truths they might reveal. My mental space was so full - there was no room. And my day was too full, as well - what time I had was not there for the 'self-indulgence' of writing.
But just over a week ago, a post turned up on my Facebook Newsfeed. It was from The Poetry School, and was about NaPoWriMo. This is National Poetry Writing Month, and the challenge is to write something every day of the month of April. I really don't know why, but I decided to do it. There was nothing to lose. I hadn't written anything for so long, I would make the time. It was only for a month. And it didn't matter if I wrote rubbish.
I'm now eleven poems in, and have found how to write again. I'm even pleased with some of them!
Sometimes doing something on a whim can be a good thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment