Thirty in Thirty: Test Your Commitment

I tried it before and petered out in less than a week. This time, I was inspired by my friend Nave's determination to write 100 poems in 100 days as a way of healing from cancer surgery. I decided to try again. Thirty poems in thirty days. I know some poets think of this kind of exercise as a glut of words. Why would you write a poem when you weren't particularly inspired? A waste of time. A blasphemy of poetry. I couldn't disagree more.

What better way to prepare yourself to write a poem at the highlight of inspiration as opposed to putting it off until the brilliance has grayed, sunk deep into the quicksand of brain matter? Practice makes perfect. Here's a slightly violent metaphor: When asked why we had to practice shooting, using our batons, or our quick draw over and over when I was a cop, our trainer gave a simple answer. "When the time comes to use what you know, you won't have time to think. You will simply do what you have practiced. It becomes a physical memory, the natural response. You do what you practice."

I would say this is true for the writer. When we practice writing everyday, we are ready when the bright green glow of a shooting star lights the horizon. We do not wait until we've lost the freshness of watching the hawk bathe on a low branch just above the cow pond, or the eagle soars out over the lake on a late October day. We sit to capture the lushness of the July garden after a thundershower or the snake's writhing passage through our back yard. We learn to appreciate , notice, and praise the everyday events of our extraordinary lives; how lucky we are to be here, to be participating in what Joanna Macy calls "The Great Turning." We, as artists, should be documenting the ending of what has been and the beginning of what is to come. The wars. The revolutions. The farmer's markets. Our children and their discoveries. Our pets. Our love stories.

One good way to establish and to test your commitment as a writer, an artist, a poet is to take on the challenge of thirty in thirty. Whether it is 30 poems in 30 days; 30 sketches in 30 days, 30 pages in 30 days, the process can teach us so much about ourselves. We learn that everything we write or paint or pot is not precious. It doesn't need to be perfect. We discover that life itself is precious as we learn to express our gratitude for what we all too often take for granted. We write about those things in ourselves and in the world that we would like to change. We see that our writing is the first step toward making that change.

We plow ahead when the going gets rough. If all we can squeeze out is a haiku, we are satisfied. We don't allow ourselves to be deterred by anything, but carry on like soldiers of the word. It isn't easy. We start to notice how easily time gets away from us, but instead of moaning and groaning, we write about it. Below is an example of one of those days I could not think of anything but how hard it was to feel inspired every day for an entire month. I had begun to think I would fail and, indeed, had missed and had to make up days. Instead of throwing up my hands and giving up (the easy way out) I simply wrote about that, too.

After all, I had a few rules to help me accomplish my goal. I could write about anything. The writing could be a poem, a haiku, or a poem start (writing that would become a poem). Most importantly, the poem could be bad. What the practiced writer learns is that it takes the courage to write bad poems (or create bad art) in order to write good poems and create good art. The "30 in 30" exercise is one of the best I know for bringing this truth home, inscribing it on our hearts so that we don't forget it. This exercise makes us brave and gives us the joy it takes to want to create, even if it's just because we saw that incredible sliver of moon floating red in a darkened sky. That's enough. That's all we need. Prove it. Take the challenge. You'll be glad you did.

30 Poems in 30 Days

Time is a trick done
not with mirrors but with ticks
and tocks, watches, wall clocks,
wrist watch, cell phones, computers, dash.
Time wraps itself around your shoulders at dusk
thick, weighty, worn out as old grandmother's shawl.
All you can do is lay beneath it,
watch TV, snack, stop, drop, and roll into bed.
It all starts with a braying alarm
incessant beeping, NPR
and that first cup of coffee.
You want to write your poem then.
You do. You need to. You know you do.
But you don't. Instead
your head nods, eyes droop close
until you wake to find your cup
clutched between your fingers,
tilting coffee at the brim.
Time to get up, go to work
arrive at appointments
fix breakfast
get the kids off to school.
For the rest of the day
time is minutemen marching in camp:
double-time, quick-step,
here and there a half-step
until all of a sudden
day is done.
The wrist and hand are weak from working
at everything, at anything (but writing).
Your mind writhes beneath the worries of another day
of doing, doing, left undone.
Don't ride yourself to death
on the back of pen and paper.
This time you know exactly what to do, saying,
"Alright then, tomorrow I'll write two."