I must risk writing badly If I am to write at all But what if nothing comes? No ideas big or small No dragons breathing fire Or knights in suits of steel No aliens or monsters No queens or spinning wheels To make a story out of nothing can seem an impossible feat How to coax a tale from thin air? Perhaps it’s time to admit defeat? Yet did you just imagine the very things that I wrote out? Perhaps the place to start are jots and scribbles without doubt Perhaps that’s where the story grows in strength as it unfurls Leaning into imagination as creativity twists and twirls Perhaps there is a magic in learning to let go In writing without thought until a trickle becomes a flow Until a rhyme begins to tickle coalescing centre stage What seemed impossible mere moments ago now clear upon the page
This is the magic of writing for me: some days I sit down with no idea what to write, but if I can let go of the little voice that’s telling me I may as well give up and just take the tiny, gargantuan step of putting fingers to keys, a poem can surprise me by materialising into existence, like this one did.
I wonder where they come from. Any ideas?