Three bursts of pandemic poetry, courtesy of word magnets.
For ten years, I’ve reshaped the story in my head into something so special, so grand. It’s a dangerous thing for a writer-who-isn’t-writing to do.
When I create, I like restrictions. Magnetic poetry flows because I choose the words. Here, I am blank, pulling from within. * I am not empty; I shape from what’s left. I like facts that push against me. A story I mold with the clay in my hands.
I told him I wished that working with my hands came naturally, like it does for my father. I wish I could look at an object, and parts and pieces, and know what to do with them. I sometimes wish I could build with physical materials, rather than shape with words — that I could manifest creativity a different way.
Master a simple story with just a few elements. Don’t try to do too much too quickly. I say all of these things very generally, referring to anything we might undertake in life, but also very specifically, when it comes to writing a certain story.
So here I am, molding jet lag into something productive and creative, carving out a bit more time.