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Creative space is very important to me. It has to be a place where what is in my head has room to move around. If I have a ready-made prompt or an idea that I am already working on, that space can be directly in front of the computer. Otherwise I may gravitate towards the deck, away from the industriousness of the home.
I realized recently how music plays a part in my writing space. I usually play classical music when I want to write poetry or personal essays such as this one. When I need to edit a piece or spend time submitting my work, I play light jazz. I don’t even like jazz! But it works for writing.
Writing, to me, is like owning an antique car. It wasn’t antique when I first got it. It was brand spankin’ new. I put the pedal to the metal and drove it until the wheels fell off. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to take care of it. So one day the engine block seized up. Years later, I have pulled the dust cover off, put a little oil in it, and to my surprise it started. But before I drive it, I’m going to pop the hood and learn everything about it. I’m going to refurbish the engine and replace all the gears and gauges. I’m going to make this baby shine and purr, worth more than ever!
I write for my own pleasure, but I have also had the pleasure of being published. In order for others to read my poetry and share in the thoughts I put on paper, I need to continue this trend. My being published is direct proof of the benefits of writing workshop. The workshop experience is invaluable. I enjoy reading, critiquing, and learning from the skills of others as much as having my own poems read and critiqued.
All of this takes time: writing time, editing time, and submission time. The bottom line is that writers like me who can’t stop/won’t stop writing, will always somehow find the time.
Valerie Smith has recently been published in BlazeVOX15.
She is a member of the Georgia Writers Association.
Commencement
Does a flame live
if it doesn’t explode
orange black smoke
and rocket coal
into the untamed sky,
uncontained spreading
free until it dies?
There is a young man
throwing a football,
his heart and arm relaxed
to the rhythm of nevermind—
he’s not as tall as he will get.
The right to ask a spark
burns buildings to the ground.
The covered candle dims
for the sake of the glass—
simmers for the sake of the glass.
"Writing, to me, is like owning an antique car..."