creative grit

The guy at the pub is right: poems are hard.

Sometimes you have a great idea – the tiny bit of grit with potential to grow into a beautiful pearl – but however much you turn and tweak and worry it, it seems to refuse to gather form and realise its potential.

When this happens, all you can do is put the notes to one side and let your subconscious go on working while you get on and do other things.
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taking notes

Yesterday I mentioned that I haven’t been writing recently. This is, of course, a lie: there are always fragments of ideas that get jotted down or filed away in memory until the right context and focus is found.

Those that remain in memory will surface sporadically, looking for something to connect to. And I’ll come across odd phrases scribbled on paper some time in the future when I’m clearing up and maybe type them onto the computer or add them to a file of papers where they are less likely to get lost.

Eventually some of them will link up and a poem may start to brew, or I may find a use for some of them alongside a photo here on the blog.
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swanning around

Once more, my head seems to be stuffed so full of cotton wool, clouds or feathers that there’s no room for a single useful or original thought.

I do have a set of rather lovely photos of swans I took recently but I think pretty much everything I’ve written that features birds, feathers or flight has already appeared on the blog at some point, so I’m lacking words to accompany the pictures.

I would have thought that swans should be inspirational and make writing easy as the adult female is a pen. These, though, seem to be mute swans.
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skeletons in the archive

Once more, I’ve sat down at the computer without any idea of what to write. I don’t think I’ve ever really worried about suffering with writer’s block, but often days and weeks go by without any new ideas surfacing.

One reason for continuing with this blog is that it forces me to write something, even if it’s just re-posting a poem from the past; it makes me dig out an image or two to go alongside and forces me to combine words and ideas into some form of logical structure, some kind of complete unit: essentially, it reminds me that however little new creative writing I am doing, I still consider myself a writer.
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under duress

It’s Christmas Eve and I really would rather be elsewhere – probably not in the local pub where there’s a karaoke evening in full swing, but perhaps in the kitchen where there’s a bottle of something suitably cheap and fizzy, half full or half empty depending on your point of view.

But I have a blog to write.
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in haste

A message in my inbox this morning provided me with a title and a challenge to write a poem.

I have in fact written very little poetry this year and the idea of writing something to order is daunting.
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blank

I came across some old photos yesterday, which is just as well, as my mind is a blank and at least they give me something to post.

rubbish strewn street.
I have been meaning to write this post since yesterday morning and the few thoughts I’ve had are rubbish.
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