Author’s note: As I've mentioned before, I'm currently co-facilitating a course through the Nebraska Writing Project. Part of the course requirement is a daily writing expectation. Each day we are responsible for bringing a piece to our writing group. And each institute I take, I write a resistance to writing piece. This is my resistance to writing piece for the year. It was frustrating yesterday to sit and wait for a bolt of writing lightening to hit me...because nothing came. I sat outside for nearly three hours and wrote almost nothing. I tried reading to inspire me. I tried people watching. Yesterday was just one of those days....as a writing teacher, it's good for me to experience these so I can help my students through those dry days when they feel they have nothing to write. So...here's my sub-par resistance to writing poem:
One of Those Days
You know the ones---
the ones where
you don't talk
and you don't write
because you have nothing to say.
But really, the words...
they're present and floating.
you just can't grasp them long enough
to plug them on the screen.
Today is one of those days.
who's gonna listen to a word I utter?
few real struggles to overcome.
Who will listen to me blather about life
when I haven't lived long?
And who will listen to me preach about teaching
when I’m barely older than my own students?
But I do have stories to write.
I just don't.
I keep them locked in my bones,
and when they ache to get out,
I run as long and as fast as my legs will take me.
I like to think the stories fly out when I run,
landing in sparrows' ears
who later turn them into simple yet beautiful
songs outside peoples' bedroom windows.
It's a temporary release, this method of mine.
they somehow find their way back into my bones,
and the next day they pulse begging to be told.
I should just write these stories down, I think.
But thinking is my problem.
Really, I think my thinking is more fear.
Fear of the weight my stories will bare
or the consequence I'll have for telling.
Fear of who might read these stories
and what opinion they'll assume.
Yet I know
our stories must be written.
So I will plod along
pecking these keys against my will.