What's going on here?

What's going on here?
Well Amanda and Emily both have goals to write more. Amanda wants to write a poem and a half a day for the next year, while Emily wants to write for National Write a Novel Month (NaNoWriMo), which is usually in November, but she is going to do it from now until her mission on May 18th. Here is were you can follow us in our goals! Leave comments, encouragement, and what ever else you feel like.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Writing Advice From Papa Hemingway

Papa Hemingway taught me one thing.
Papa taught me a whole lot,
But he taught me one thing about writing.
Writing is as simple and as hard
As sitting down with pen and paper
And writing the truest sentence you’ve ever said.
And then you write another.
And another
And you fill up the page with truth
And write books full of truth
Fill volumes and libraries with truth.
It doesn’t have to be real
But it does have to be true.
And so I sat down to write the truest thing I’ve ever said.
Write the truest sentence I’ve ever told anyone
Let alone the pen and paper I write these poems on.
And this is what came out.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I don’t know what it is that makes this heart broken
I don’t know what it is that makes this brain
Work in ways no one quite understands.
I don’t know what it is that makes this poetry thing
More real than any words I’ve ever spoken.
I just know something in my past is what makes it.
There is something that happened in the way back
That made me different.
That made me separate.
That made me listen to Papa Hemingway more than my contemporaries.
That made me spend nights holed up in classrooms
Spitting out words I can’t say aloud
But I can spew into microphones
That makes that act of standing on stage
Feel like the most private and intimate moment of my life.
Because I come from a long history of white washers.
Of black places at the back of the brain.
A history of unfinished puzzles
And I don’t know what pieces are missing.
I don’t know if there are hands grabbing and pulling from the blackness of that childhood
I don’t know if its words spat in my eyes that I couldn’t let rattle through the years.
I don’t know if its lashes and scars covered up by new skin and dead brain cells.
All I know is that I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I don’t know what the combination of words and events
That will open this 7th grade gym locker of a heart
Will paint across this billboard of my life.
But most of all I don’t care.
I won’t use my past as a fishing hole.
Casting and recasting into the blackness
Trying to pull out new aortas still pumping with blood and black swamp water.
I won’t smear that blood across pages
Exclaiming for the world to see just how broken I am.
Because everyone’s got problems.
You’ve got problems
I’ve got problems.
Papa Hemingway had problems.
He had a ton of problems.
His problems were what dragged him down.
But I will not let my problems take over.
I will remain what they call an unfinished puzzle
Because it looks like a mosaic to me.
I am not what happened to me
But who I’ve become.
I will not spread old blood across the fields and stages of the world
Because that’s not the blood of who I am now.
It doesn’t smell like the A positive pumping through my veins right now.
So here it is
Ready for you and all the world to hear and digest
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
But I do know
It doesn’t matter.
Because who I am now
Is not the blank spaces. 

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