Writing a poem draft a day--writing practice musings

A friend of mine and I agreed to write one poem draft a day, every day during April. I've been very stuck, writing-wise. This is helpful; probably few of the drafts will evolve into poems, but at least I'm creating clay to work with. I think that is the hardest part of wanting to write, to be a writer. Other art forms have material to shape, physical material, like stone, metal, paint, fiber, or clay. I wonder, though, if the plight of a musician and that of a choreographer is somewhat the same as that of a writer: where do we start? Words, notes, movement, yes, but you can't just grab up a handful and start shaping. 

But yet, having promised to do this challenge, I am managing to find something to write every morning. I don't put it off until later in the day for a couple of reasons. There's always some distraction calling me away from the keys and from my interior monologuing. And there's also that pesky editor in my head, too. I blurt for some lines, then I save the draft. No editing. No second-guessing-- I'm not awake enough to dig into revision of a fresh set of words and lines. And that's a good thing. I now have my medium to muck about with later.

Maybe this doesn't work for everyone else, but it seems to work for me. I have to hear a line in my head, then I can get things down. But now, I'm not waiting for the line to show up. I toss around some sounds and a question, and see where they go. I have other work to do or to get to, so I can't spend a lot of time playing with it, either-- this time constraint seems to help me blurt more productively. Mary Oliver says in her writing handbook, titled (pithily?) A Poetry Handbook, that a writer must make a regularly scheduled date with her muse, and stick with it. The muse will show up more often that way. 

I am glad that I set/adopted this writing challenge. My muse has been somewhat reluctant to show up, and it's my fault, at least in large part. Am I serious about writing or not? I don't feel like a dilettante anymore, but I have not honored the commitment I made to myself very well, either. Yes, there have been myriad life challenges and work requirements, house chores and general busy-ness, but I can't hide behind those excuses. If I have time for a cup of coffee, I have time to blurt. 

And I got that book review written and submitted on my surprise snow day Thursday-- the one I'd been kicking around for a while. Now, after I take a couple of days, I'll start reading the next poetry collection I've been asked to write about. Reading other poets' work is generative, too; you can't draw from an empty or fouled well. I need to take my own advice and feed my brain good stuff, not just newspaper headlines and doom-scrolling detritus. 

But how about that earthquake, eh? 

Have a good day,

C