Cooing Angels and Rakish Devils

 Clearing hurdles and sprinting to the page.
By Elizabeth Cutright

Ninety minutes to go till the end of the workday, and I know I should write something.  Oh, those days when getting to the page is tough.

Sometimes it’s laziness.

Sometimes it’s boredom.



A wicked hangover.

These are the hurdles that rise up and keep you from your daily writing.

Because I committed last year (and recommitted recently) to routinely blogging about the life of a working writer/editor, I’ve always got that little Angel-Devil dialogue happening on my keyboard-hunched shoulders.

Of course, neither the wings nor the pitchfork can claim complete victory.  Sometimes it feels almost angelic to skip a few days and let the creative well refill to sustainable levels.  At other times, the Devil’s wooing is inescapable, and I find myself skipping a day for sloth and idle entertainment.

Today, in an attempt to kick start the muse, I revisited some old friends – Simple Abundance, Gift from the Sea, the Daily Poetry blog – but I couldn’t find any inspiration.  I realized it was time to give those familiar favorites a break.  Time to try something new.  Maybe attempt writing without a net, letting the words float or fall on their merit.

It’s a short entry today – Monday’s are a tough nut to crack – but I hope these few paragraphs trigger your creative guilt-monger.  Perhaps your shoulder-angel will win this round and get you typing up a plot or reviewing a manuscript.  Maybe you’ll see me sputter and stumble and think, “well…hell…if she can prop herself up in front of the laptop and puke a few sentences, surely I can finish that short story.”

Daily creative writing isn’t about tapping genius every chance you get.  It’s about preparing for the long haul.  Building up your creative stamina.  Finding the reasons, searching for the golden ticket, and grasping at the brass ring.
And will you look at that, a few words…a few moments…and up gurgles a poem all on its own.

Now’s your turn – happy writing!

This Is All There Is

This is all there is.
A decade squats
Between the me I am
And the girl I was.

A child robed
In an adult’s dress
A quilt of clichés
Ragged and threadbare.

I am no swan
In disguise.
No stealthy caterpillar
Waiting to bloom.

I disrobe,
Blanket of sins
Tumbled in the dust
The final reveal.

This is the me
I am, not
The me I should be.
Yet this is all there is.

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