My dear friend RW and I have started a writing club. Our mission is to dedicate an hour or two each week to writing. We have vowed to open wine only after one full hour of writing and to keep focused on writing, reading, and talking about books for that duration.
Sounds easy, right? So one first night of writing club I wrote a little of the marriage backstory for my novel. Nothing publishable but work nevertheless.
I did a few minutes of research on off-kilter wedding readings and quotes which turned up an Adrienne Rich poem that I’ve read but forgotten and I’m not sure that I like:
"II" from "Twenty-One Love Poems" by Adrienne Rich
I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you’ve been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I’ve been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You’ve kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone…
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carried the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.
Pretty unproductive and maybe a bit disappointing, not the company or club, of course, but the lack of my brain to make space to let the words come through.
Make space for it and it will come, right? Say, yes.
[I promise that I won’t torture you with weekly updates and how WC is going, but thought you should be in on the ground level for inauguration night. You’re welcome.]