I am an impatient woman.
I like to cook fast and eat fast. My favorite meal is eating dessert first.
I don’t deliberate about what to buy in the grocery store.
I plant succulents because they are forgiving. They thrive after being stuck in the ground with little or no care needed.
I time how long it takes to get anywhere.
When I shop for clothes I know exactly what I want. There is no lingering.
I choose colors to paint the walls within minutes.
My art is impulsive.
This is not a problem for me.
Until now. Impatience is not serving my writing.
I have always been an intuitive writer. I sit down and the passions and creativity of the day pour out of my skin onto the page.
I feel alive. Letting the words fly into poem, prose, essay, gives life meaning especially during hard times.
This approach often helps me cope but the words I share may not be ready for others without marination.
Like this poem. I am ready for it to end. I want to press send.
It works for me.
Yet, a wise woman shared with me recently the importance of incubation.
Letting the words sit on the page for days or weeks.
Coming back and noticing how a little detail, color, sound, texture can bring us into a fuller image.
Removing words, rearranging sentences, listening to the piece.
Although this feels like someone is holding my hands down when I want to fly, I must heed her words.
I will let this poem sit until it tells me there is nothing more to say.
Jan Herzog says
I notice you do not comment on your impatience with your intimate relationships!!!
This is so darn self aware, I could be jealous