Can'tsleep

Y'know, I have a terrible, sneaking suspicion that this program I'm in - the one that's supposed to teach me how to write and how to make writing my life - is actually making me hate the whole process.



Do you remember being in, like, grade eleven, and thinking you were the best writer EVER? Writing those little emo (don't deny it, no matter how dumb you thought that trend was, they still had an influence) poems and short stories (usually science fiction or romance based) or even little snappy essays. Just because you could? I loved that phase. I look back at some of the old blog entries I wrote then, and they still resonate with me. I'm still proud of a lot of the stuff I wrote back then.

Same thing with my writing samples from Writer's Craft. I saved my little poem booklet, and my morbid McDonald's short story, and I am still proud of them. That was a time when writing was fun, and I loved it, and I felt inspired and interesting. That class, and that time of my life, was the reason I chose to go into journalism.

And I don't know if this has happened to anyone else. But I've found that, since coming here, I haven't written a single thing that was just for me. I haven't been struck with any kind of urge to just sit down at my keyboard and see what happens. I look at those other two blog entries and am struck by how forced and horrible they sound. It's like I'm too tired of writing by the time I get home that the last thing I want to do is write for fun.

Is this normal? Is this natural? Does it mean I'm in the wrong program? I have no idea. But I really miss it! I miss that time when blogging was awesome and I just had so many "original" thoughts that I wanted to share with everyone!

My favourite poem that I have ever created came to me while I was brushing my teeth. It was something like 1 am on a school night (this was back when that actually means late) and I was exhausted and sooooo ready for bed. And I was half brushing, half falling asleep over the sink, when the idea popped into my head. And the opening line. And I sprinted back into my room and turned my computer back on and just banged out that poem in about twenty minutes. And that poem (only slightly edited, I might add!) is still one of my very favourite pieces of writing. It was also the last time I have felt that inspired, or that overjoyed about the process of writing. When I showed it to my teacher (a professional poet in his own right) I described that feeling to him. And he said that it was so easy to spend your whole life just chasing that feeling. That elation, that natural high.

Unfortunately, I'm still chasing it. And the thought that I might never get it back really scares me.

I think I'll share that poem with whoever's reading this. A nice way to end this post, since I have no better ideas. Don't mock me, I love it.


In My Back Garden

There are faeries in my back garden.
They make their beds in the violets; the pansies.
The soft purple is soothing and sleepy, they say.
But never the daffodils.
Who could sleep in a daffodil? they demand of me,
Each voice an oboe, grating on my ears.
Daffodils are far too bright!
The yellow would be harsh on our eyes,
And the trumpeting would keep us awake!
The faeries are picky, and hard to please.

And there are roses in my back garden.
Cascades, waterfalls, fountains of roses.
I go swimming in them.
Avoiding the needle-points of their thorns.
The roses are changeful in their moods,
And I must tiptoe around them, in fear of their scorn.
Some days they are gypsy-like, brassy and bold.
Others, they blush pink and hide their faces amid the leaves.
And still others, haughty and prim.
Too aware of their own beauty.

Bees buzz ‘round my back garden.
Threading artfully amongst the bursts of colour below.
Playing lover to each one, in the hopes of stealing sweet nectar.
They have spats with the faeries,
Who feel betrayed by their lovers, the flowers.
Wanting to keep all the sweetness for themselves.
Enraged, they whiz up to confront the bees.
Oboes and shrieking violins, clashing in midair.
The petals plead softly from below,
Wanting only to love them both.

When a storm blows into my back garden,
The faeries scramble to a hiding place.
Afraid that their wings will get wet.
Or that their sparkles will slide off.
The pond laughs at the, giggling,
As each droplet wrinkles its smooth surface.
Plink, plink, plunk! How silly to be afraid of a raindrop.
The faeries mock the pond, while pulling grass dress over
their damp bodies
Plink, plink, plunk? Who would listen to such a sound?
The pond laughs louder, and splashes their dainty feet.

When nighttime comes to my back garden,
The faeries begin to yawn and stretch.
The moon sings softly to them, crooning a lullaby.
The flowers fold shut.
Waiting for the next day’s sun.
To coax them open with its wash of light.
And inside each flower sits a faerie.
Wrapped in a blanket of purple petals,
They sleep, until the morning comes.
And the trumpet of the daffodil begins again.