Non-Writing Writer

I was inspired this morning as I walked to practice piano for an upcoming recital… this would have been great, had I been inspired to practice. Rather, I was inspired to set the opening of Wordsworth’s The Prelude to music. 

My roommate (bless her) stopped me just in time: “Ryanne, if you write a melody and add lyrics, you’ll also want to add harmony and piano. You don’t have time!” 

Valid. 

But I felt strongly the annoyance of being unable to create due to the pressures of my ordinary, required pursuits. 

So I wrote a little rhyme to vent: 

A non writing writer’s a monster they say:

A little too frazzled and nearly insane.

She lives in an enchanted, storybook world 

Yet can’t venture in, for life is a whirl.

One single word leads to many and two-

Well, they multiply to be more than a few. 

And should she dare to compose a small line 

She risks the danger of falling behind;

The everyday life has no cares for the muse,

Though the poet’s soul, she hardly did choose. 

So cursed with a mind that brews up ideas 

And a heart that ever ceaselessly feels,

She stumbles about with a businesslike stride 

And forces her little brainchildren to hide

And wait for a time when life will relax 

It’s grip made of boring and ord’nary tasks-

So she might finally write them all down,

These inkling ideas that, impatient, abound. 

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Late Night Writes

When night falls yet I cannot sleep, words crowd my brain. The following two poems, one serious and the other silly, are the products of last night’s writing:

“Hover”

I lay still in my bed

yet hover ‘tween the sheets

propelled by the heart 

which wakefully beats. 

A’whirl my mind spirals

through darkening, deep

space starry with fears, 

that burn bright without sleep.

 

“Poet’s Ale”

Insomnia is poet’s ale-

no ailment once in words!

And worry is a hearty pie

that fuels the pen to verse. 

.

Heartache makes a decent draught

to nourish sonnet’s rhymes.

And sorrow’s meal, though bittersweet, 

scribes songs of better times.

.

No writer ever sleeps with ease;

prose lends him no blanket.

‘Tis poetry for nights like these

to make the best of it! 

 

 

Writing a Child

I often refer to my novel as “my baby” and I know this is a tiny bit weird. But, being a writer, I really could not care less if I’m weird.

Still, I think I have a valid point when I call my novel a baby, as…

 

“Writing a Child”

 

It changes each chapter

and brings me to tears,

Especially now as it

becomes a two-year

old- it calls and it cries

for it’s always in need

to stuff it’s word-count

with research as feed.

Such tender affection

to nurture its plot;

for I joy when I’m writing

and guilt when I’m not.

It’s silly and moody

and can’t make up its mind

if it wants to be three books

or five of a kind.

I yearn for a day when

it’s finally grown

and publishing rights

are all of it I’ll own-

but then will I miss it?

A mother no more?

Or is being an author

much, much better for

My sleep-schedule, diet,

mental sanity…

Or will I be pacing

ever constantly

awaiting the critics

and readers reviews…

Oh! Poor baby novel,

how can I leave you?

I must make you stronger

to stand on the shelves

amidst the great classics

who fend for themselves.

My troublesome infant,

mind-born and ink-bred

please, please obey me,

as when sprung from my head-

for then you were simple

and naked and pure

and how to raise you

I felt so very sure…

Yet still I am patient

and faithful to thee

and will guide you until

in covers neatly,

we’ll bind up and copy-

swaddle and send you

to share your small story

with those we pray who

will adopt, read, and love

‘midst this wide-worded world

 

the novel in labor,

I’ve finally unfurled.

 

Writing is Hard: A Lament

Writing is hard

and I’ll tell you why:

I am not the Bard

and that makes me cry.

Red pens are bloodstains

on my poor first draft

Despite prep-school refrains

about the English “RAFT.”

Well, dear school teachers,

I must ask you now:

Though you seemed to be preachers,

I do not know how

To find out my ROLE

and write something witty

Or cater to AUDIENCES

who only give pity.

FORMAT is another

thing that I fear,

Should I use some other

TOPIC right here?

And don’t get me started

on characters mine;

They seem to have parted

from the plot in my mind.

Speaking of plot,

that’s a whole other problem.

It’s conflicts are rot

and I can’t seem to solve them.

But Ah! What sweet hope

Is a new inspiration!

To quit is to elope

but I need a vacation!

This stupid novel draft

is getting quite tedious

and you’d have to be daft

to desire to read this.

Alas, though, I’m stuck

and committed you see,

for it is just my luck

to write a trilogy…