I lose a fair bit in the way of thought and phrases as a result of not writing things down as they occur. I tell myself I’ll remember the train of thought. I tell myself I’ll remember the circumstances that led to the inspiration and make lightning strike twice. Neither of those things ever happens. Sometimes, I forget I’ve had an idea at all.

A writing professor once suggested we carry around a little notebook and pencil to jot down the liked bits of flotsam and jetsam that our brains generate without much pause. I thought it a good idea, but I couldn’t decide on the type of notebook, or the type of writing utensil, or even the size. Should I carry a stack of recipe cards, or is this more of a journal-type thing? Will it fit in my purse, or am I upgrading to a tote?

The great thing about anxiety – and perfectionism is one of the ways it plays out for me – is that you end up accomplishing little. I’m an expert at spinning my wheels.

There’s also the phone option – we carry those electronic balls and chains everywhere we go. Some of us even have smartwatches, which means we have no valid excuse for not getting it done. You just have to do it, which is easy for me to say, and ridiculously hard for me to execute at times.

I’ve been trying to change this behaviour, trying to move away from this form of procrastination. It’s not serving me well. There’s not much point in complaining you’ve nothing to write about if you keep letting ideas drift away into the ether. It’s hard to feel sympathetic towards a claim of writer’s block when nothing that might help is tried.

The other night, therefore, when inspirations struck, I grabbed a pencil before I could get busy being a problem to myself. I had some poetic thoughts I wanted to get down, and, for a change, I did. I just wish I had more legible handwriting. And next time, I’ll grab a pen. Legibility gets even harder when the writing’s almost too pale to see.

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dead is dead

the problem with dead is that 
dead is dead.
completely dead.
totally dead.
there's no end-of-season surprise shower reveal,
no out-of-the-blue call from an amnesiac who just might be - 
they're not a plentiful on the ground as
television writers would have us believe - 
there's just deadness that persists persistently.

death is annoying in its finality,
as annoying as the universe's indifference,
which is not the same as the universe not caring,
but death isn't personal when the deceased is unknown,
and the universe is busy with a lot on its plate.

dead is dead, and life, oblivious to our 
individual agonies and ecstasies,
the sum total of which are less than a blink
compared to all of existence, carries on,
which is, of course, 
no comfort at all. 

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(I don’t edit my creative efforts enough, and I’m old enough now that I can start to blame that kind of thing on age. Except, I will refer to it as an “earned preference.” That sounds nicer than admitting to being often lazy.)

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