The First Drafts

The ideas
               ramblings
                       uncontrolled dreams
                                beginnings 
                                                 ends.

Some may move on,
others may not,
but they were all
beautiful.

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The First Page

The Poem

On the first page of my found book of handwritten poetry from 2008 (in case you didn’t read the previous post) was written the words above. I gave the scribblings more shape for this post.

It wasn’t really a poem as much as just some quick thoughts, or probably reminders. On the spine of the book I had written: First Drafts and Notes- of course they’re bad. They’re supposed to be.

The first page was probably my attempt at being kind to myself. Allowing myself permission to just write whatever, be free, get the ideas out. These are meant to be first drafts.

I’ve never been kind to myself as a writer or a poet, in fact, I don’t ever call myself either of those titles. Sometimes when I go back and read something I wrote and think its good, I wonder, did I write that or did I copy that from something? There are days when I gravitate between thinking I am awesome and awful. Most of the time, I don’t write at all. As I’ve gotten older the less I write. The less relevant my words feel. The less ideas come. Sadly, I’ve allowed this atrophy to persist. Thankfully there is still a tiny part of me that resists; a tiny grain of desire.

In 2008, I still had a lot of hope that maybe I could break through my own barriers and breakout into the world. Now, not so much.

The Photograph

In the center of the first page was taped this photograph. I don’t know who the woman is in the photo. I don’t believe she is related to me. I had in the past sometimes bought old photos from thrift stores. This may have been one of those. Over the tape I had written:

I’m awaiting the muse. Loving is all I have.

I really don’t remember what had been going through my mind at the moment of deciding to tape a photo of a stranger, long vanished into time, into my book of poetry, but there she is. Sitting and waiting for her muse. I imagine I was waiting for the muse too.

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Have you ever stumbled across some of your old writing and wondered, what did I mean by this?

Do you/did you struggle with allowing yourself to write?