It occurred to me the other day that I haven’t written poetry in quite some time. No jots of quick little lines, no run on jumbles of thought barely connected by a sense of theme. Nothing, really. The only things I have written are emails and written assignments.

Long stretches of silence, dry spells. Not writer’s block because there is nothing being blocked.

Have you ever had that? Long spells of little to no writing sometimes punctuated with, “yes, this thought or feeling, surely I’ll write it down.” But then never do. The notion is there, but no follow through. Then time and time goes by and there is a sensation of a dry, cool wind drifting amid the tombstones of your thoughts.

I’ve had a lot of life changes over the last few months and it can be argued I haven’t had the time. I’ve entered a stage of my life where writing assignments is a thing again and my weeks are full of school things.

But isn’t it part of the writer’s code, or mantra? Write everyday?

Maybe I’m a failed writer. I haven’t been writing and some part of me just feels like I can’t, or there’s something missing.

It’s hard to put into words. But it does feel like silence. It feels like mulling new and old thoughts over and over.

Is this a silence to be broken with a shout? Or the type of silence of a blooming flower?

I don’t know. Real talk, I haven’t been making my writing a priority. The most important thing a professor once told me was writing begets writing. And so, I shouldn’t be surprised I haven’t been writing because I simply haven’t.

But I do think that writing goes through a sort of incubation period; one where the thoughts live for awhile inside your head, biding their time. However, expecting them to come out on their own is unrealistic. Thoughts incubate, but they also have the potential to whither away into non existence until all is left if a vague impression.

So I’m afraid that all I’ll have in my head is unmarked tombstones in a desert of unwritten silence.

That said, I feel more hopeful having written even this piece. Sometimes I think the things we write serve purposes apart from the ones we think we are writing to or from. I believe we reveal, or self disclose, with even the smallest things we write about. And that is part of writing too, isn’t it, to discover something new about ourselves? I think Joan Didion said something about that, or some other writer.

The point, I think, is to not be afraid or become frustrated with the long stretches of writing silence. Things take their time, and when the time is best to do things, we must learn to recognize and act. It’s a hard process; I find it difficult to act in most circumstances.

There’s also life to contend with. Sometimes things just have to line up, makes sense or give a sense of peace before one can relax and just write.

That’s what I am hoping anyway–to have the time and sense of security that I can plan and write my heart away.

I feel like there is way more to say about this, but I’ll end it here. Let me know your thoughts.

Thanks for being here. Pax 🙂