A few days ago, I did some online digging for potential writing exercises to sink my teeth into. I admit, my findings were disappointing. So, if you have any good resources to recommend, please share them with me in comments.  I enjoy a good brain bend. I just can’t bring myself to “pretend I’m a tree and write how that makes me feel.” I’m sure you understand. 

I did humor myself with one the other morning before work. Something about being in a coffee shop, and thinking of all the things that bend, stretch, and/or tilt. For whatever reason, my fingers were flying on this one. A lot of things bend, a lot of things stretch, a lot of things tilt. Light through windows, arms over head, minds on drugs. Interesting results. It’s the first thing I’ve worked on (in a while, admittedly) that felt like an honest slice of my writing “style” I guess you could say.  There are times when I get lost with it. Perhaps I can site a background in slam poetry/performing for this one. Sometimes I catch myself getting caught up in what others might want to hear, as opposed to what I want to say, or better yet: what I see.  I felt myself breaking through this with the bend/stretch/tilt exercise. Things that tilt for you may just bend for me.  I get caught up, constantly, in little gestures and movements of others—from well-placed smirks to wrist flicks. I do not write about them enough. Sometimes I read my work and wonder what the heck I’m talking about.  Sometimes the observations are not what I see, not what I process, but what I imagine others must see.  I guess my point is I’m through with borrowing eyes when I sit down to write, and I needed to put that here, in an entry, so I will not forget.  

The best exercise, for me at least, is good ol’ s.o.c., stream of conscious writing. No editing, no pausing—just going.  When I do this, I don’t have time to think about/consider the observations others may want to hear as opposed to what I have to say.  I am best at just letting it out.  There are cardigans sloping off chairbacks that I find downright devastating but never mention. Every time I jot down some heartache I find myself thinking of victory. This may be of no service to you, but there are moments when we must just put it down so we will not forget. I would love to say I never forget, but I do—this is my space to remember.  The more I focus on what I see, the more certain my way of writing is, and the more I believe in my words and work. I start to doubt the verse when it is not mine…or when it is mine, but not I guess. I’m trying to avoid rambling in circles here, but so many things are circular—I am bound to step on my own tail.   

The difference between my writing while on anti-depressants and my writing on no meds is astounding to me.  The tone, the word choice, the structure—everything is different. My poems are no longer formatted like prison cells. It’s hard to explain. Everything about being on that drug is hard to explain, but it did nothing for me creatively.  It knocked me back, if anything. I would sit in front of the screen with a blank Word document for over an hour, with nothing nothing nothing.  There wasn’t a flow.  That complete detachment frightens me, especially now that I am feeling more connected to the page than ever.  Maybe I needed to be separated from it, to be where I’m going now. It is a constant process. I adore the journey, I know that much. I know I want to feel conscious for every step of it. I’m on my way.