Friday, April 5, 2013

Nat'l Poetry Month; The Process

Another offering here from the depths of the Vault for National Poetry Month. This poem deals with the ambiguous, confusing "process" by which writing happens. For the record, my writing process is to write what I can, when I can.

The Process

I sit down at my keyboard in the wee hours of the night.
It seems the only time I get a chance to truly write.
When kids and job and daily chores are truly set aside
And all my thoughts are tumbling out instead of stored inside.

I've scarcely even started, though, before the conflicts start
And any plans I had of making progress fall apart.
I bang my head upon my desk because it's not my fault
But that is rather useless in forestalling their assault.

My MC doesn't like the scene I'm writing him in to
And claims that he will walk unless I write him somewhere new.
My ancillary characters all want a bigger role
And chant about their latest quest - to have rewrite control.

I bring to their attention that it's my choice they exist
And I could make them vanish in a nasty new plot twist.
But they know I've invested in them time and work and thought.
Their places in the plot line are secured and fairly bought.

Thus begins the latest round of my negotiations
Getting them to go back and resume their proper stations.
Wait to see what I have planned before they all revolt
Promising that they may like the finishing result.

I try to write them as they wish without a word of thanks
Keeping them from sneaking off 'round unprotected flanks.
Herding them this way and that through skillful turn of phrase
Hoping they remain where put and be content to graze.

Knowing it's because of them I've made it up to here
Daring not to let them loose lest they should disappear
Fencing every plot hole in to make them feel secure
Can't lose another chapter in the badlands of What Were.

At last I have them bedded down and resting in their stalls
And so I close the stable doors behind cerebral walls.
Tomorrow is another chance to guide them 'cross the range
A journey somewhat shorter now...but not a bit less strange. 

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