I Accidentally Started and Finished a Poem Project

I'm not quite sure how it happened. One year, I had created a mostly dormant Instagram account solely to see photos of my friend's baby, and I named it asherlockwrites because that was already my username on Twitter. I didn't really use it much until this summer, when, inspired by a few friends I started posting more ~artsy~ posts (check them out here, here and here). And I reminded myself of my goal to share more writing this year, everywhere and anywhere.

And my username was a. sherlock writes after all. May as well use it to do some writing.

So I started this project on a whim of inspiration and a healthy dose of "just do it." I started with a quick little thing I wrote, inspired by a beaver my dad and I saw on a bike ride one day in early spring.

After that, I saw the string of words that I had displayed on my wall, words that were reminders for me of things I'd learned over the past year. I had drawn them with watercolour paints and displayed them so I would be reminded daily of these things. What if, I thought... what if I created a poem for each word, trying to express the lesson I had learned? And if I alternated the words with like, scenery or something? That also included poems?

This project started as a kind of accidental waterfall where I ended up just going with the flow. But it became an exercise in vulnerability, being okay with imperfection, and making myself actually sit down and write. All the poems are pretty rough still, and I'm definitely not 100% happy with all of them, but that wasn't the point. The point was saying: just post it. Stop caring about it being perfect, being ready. Just get it out there.

And you know, I ended up quite liking sharing my poem project this time (the other time I did a poem project like this, I didn't share it). I like the comments and connections I made, the knowledge that maybe some people got what I was trying to say, or maybe they were reminded of something or learned something from lessons I had learned previously. Vulnerability, I've been learning this year, can be pretty powerful.

So I present to you a selection from my summer poem project, lessons & travels. You can read the complete project at instagram.com/asherlockwrites.

(also please read them on Instagram because otherwise the formatting of the poems gets messed up! This is what I get for using social media to post poetry, I guess.)

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wait. a word for a season of letting go and moving on, for stumbling through (too many) possibilities. a word that begs for stopping; for gratitude, pause and reflection. for release and rest, trusting and unagitated. a word unsettling and unsatisfying. another version, a sparkle in an eye: just you wait.

A post shared by @ asherlockwrites on May 10, 2018 at 3:22pm PDT

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could contentment be this: feeling the pull of the current suspended in time the only traffic sounds bird chirps and a million mysteries laid out on the riverbank, forgotten about for now

A post shared by @ asherlockwrites on Jun 25, 2018 at 9:32am PDT

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prairie ocean black, red-winged fish chirp diving in and out of green and yellow waves while riding through the part in the sea swallowed by the wide open blue happily surrendered to drowning

A post shared by @ asherlockwrites on Jul 6, 2018 at 2:10pm PDT

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gut reaction: revolt harbour hurts as a handful of arrows pile them up for protection except i'm the one being pierced upon reflection: bury all weapons all chipped story endings leave behind graves of what c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ never was believe in beginnings

A post shared by @ asherlockwrites on Aug 24, 2018 at 3:33pm PDT

More posts from this year's writing series:
Begin Again, about how to start again after writing slumps
Scared of Being Afraid about how rewarding it is to share work
You, about the loveliness of everyone's unique writing style

You

You walk into a library and there are hundreds of shelves with hundreds of books, all filled with hundreds of words. You stumble over piles of books in your house; words crawling up your walls and grasping at your ankles. You scan through articles and tweets and websites and everywhere you look there are more of them.

The world contains so many words. You think, does it really need any more?

You, standing there at the edge of the step, your toes curled over the curb. Holding your words to your chest because are they really that different than all the others? Surely, someone else has seen these words before. You may as well just hold onto them.

But that's not true. There are many words, yes, but can't you sense them? Let each word and delicately constructed sentence rest on your tongue, soak into your stomach, make their way to your heart. Each one a unique flavour, a delicate mix of sense and taste that plucks at each emotion in a strange and new way.  

These words, they are delicious, round and plump, like an overripe fruit, dripping with juice. These words are sharp, and quick, like a needle pricking and pinching your skin in horrible, wonderful surprise. These words are warm and flow softly, a river of molasses, the current calming you to sleep. These words have too many tastes to distinguish - all blended together that in the end sparkles and pops in your mouth and all the way down.

Your words may just be words, but they also have taste, they also have flavour. There are hundreds, billions of words spilled out into the universe by the hour, but none of them taste quite like yours.

*** 

Do you ever get that feeling that there are so many books and writing out there in the world, it seems a bit useless for you to also be a writer who wants people to read your work? Well, something I've come to realize over the past couple of years is just how unique each person's writing style is. It's amazing, really, how different people can think so differently and create such different stuff and pull on such different emotions. It seems like it should be obvious, but it's not always. 

Anyway, this post was largely inspired by my friend Amelia, who has a very different writing style than me, but I still find it delightful and beautiful! She has a blog called Bandaids and Butterflies where she does gorgeous little writing pieces about mental health and daily life, which I highly recommend you check out here.

I love how many different writing styles exist in the world. How would you describe your writing style? What are some of your favourite unique writing styles?

Some of my favourite delicious writing:

The Gods of Tango by Carolina de Robertis

Banana Heart Summer by Merlinda Bobis

Lullabies for Little Criminals by Heather O'Neill

Queen's Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner

Scared of Being Afraid

It was 2010. I sat beside my parents in a room in the library downtown. The room had black walls and a black carpet, and was filled with black chairs that held a handful of people. The room was dark, but it felt official. There was a podium in front of four or five rows of chairs. A woman got up and stood behind the podium, and began to announce the awards for the short fiction and poetry contest. I was there because I had won third place in the young writer's short fiction contest. Each winner had been asked if they wanted to read their piece aloud. I had said no, although I had a folded up copy of my story in my jacket pocket, just in case.

As the evening wore on, I listened enraptured as all these writers, young and old, shared their work and a let a little piece of themselves out into the world. They invited us, the audience, into their perspective with their words. When it was my turn to receive my award, I took the envelope handed to me and left the podium as quickly as I could. It ended up that I was one of the only two winners that didn't read my piece aloud. Later, when I emptied the folded and crumpled story from my pocket, I imagined how I would have read my piece, how I might have invited people into my world. Next time, I promised myself. Next time I would do it.

***

Next time turned out to be two years ago. I had submitted a poem to my university's small, under the radar literary journal, and they were launching that year's issue with a reading. All contributors were invited to read their work. Trying to ignore the intense self-doubt and anxiety, I said I would share. 

The literary journal's launch was small and intimate, perfect for a timid writer and first time reader. It was held in an older wing of the school that was filled with couches, cushy armchairs, and a volunteer-run cafe that often lost customers to the newer, shinier cafe in the new library, but thrived through the love and commitment of die-hard hipsters with a love of independent business and school spirit. In the evening for the launch, the hall was filled only with writers and readers and those who loved those writers and readers, maybe fifteen people total. I sat with a couple of friends on a couch and listened. It was mesmerizing to hear each person's unique stories, filled with their own incredibly distinct voices. All kinds of pieces were accepted for publication in the literary journal, and it was delightful to experience all of them, to see how these people were in the midst of developing their expression, just like me. 

Then it was my turn. Trying to keep my voice steady, I read my poem. That moment was nothing special; it was the moment after that mattered. The moment when the readings ended, the snacks were brought out, and people began to talk to each other. Each person's writing had initiated a conversation, and I was pleasantly surprised that my poem was also a part of it. Writing is so often such a solitary activity, I had forgotten that it could communicate so much to others in ways that normal conversation often can't. The launch ended, everyone dispersing, analysis and praise turning back to less soulful conversations. And all I could think was that I needed to do this again. 

***

I am not very good at sharing my writing. I like to hoard it, because in my hands it is safe. I don't understand how people constantly share their work on social media, put up summaries of their works in progress on their blog, or post their work on various websites or forums. For a long time, I have been too afraid of being criticized, or not expressing myself in the way that I want. I make excuses. It's not ready yet. It's too personal. And then I put it off and put it off and it becomes a larger and larger wall that's harder to get over. But then I miss out on the experiences on the other side of that wall - the connections, the deeper communication, the opening up of conversations that I would never have otherwise, and other things I haven't had the chance to experience yet.

I recently read YouTuber and singer/songwriter dodie's book of personal essays, Secrets for the Mad. One of my favourite chapters is actually the chapter that she didn't write, where she has one of her old friends from high school write a chapter from his perspective about her concert. It turns into a reflection on how dodie has made a successful career for herself. He talks about how a lot of her life and career is about being vulnerable and sharing very personal aspects of her life, whether that be through her songs or her YouTube channel. He says that "Dodie succeeds in creating beautiful songs because she isn't scared of being afraid. The difference between a song that speaks to you and a song that you cringe at is that the success expresses vulnerability without fear" (135). 

Sharing, being vulnerable, putting yourself out there doesn't mean fear goes away, but it does mean you aren't scared of being afraid - of being vulnerable, opening yourself up to critique but also to so much more. 

One of my goals this year is to share more of my own writing. I've been starting slowly, but you can check out some if it here, or on Twitter where I have been trying to participate weekly in #1linewed. And, speaking of sharing writing, I am on the hunt for a few more critique partners and/or beta readers! If you're interested in reading my work or swapping work, comment below with your email or email me at asherlockwrites(at)gmail(dot)com and we'll see if we're compatible. 

Further reading about my writing struggles: Book Blogging, Sharing Writing, and Other Scary Things // The Future // Begin Again

Begin Again

You haven't written anything for two years. Well, aside from essays (and you've gotten quite good at those).

You remember a time when you were a girl who scribbled things with careless abandon. She was so happy, so unencumbered. The words poured from her pen, the tips of her fingers, like it didn't hurt her at all. Her identity was deep and rooted, known to herself and everyone else. Now it seems a foggy memory; the girl a distant stranger.

Other things occupy your time. School. Life. Friends. Books. The internet.

You don't spend time staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page on a screen, because you never get there. Instead, the blank pages are in your head, taunting you, reminding you of all you aren't and never were. You pretend to move on. Writing was a childish past time, nothing that could fulfill you later in life. Besides, everyone says writers write, which of course makes you nothing.

You think yourself in circles. You're just stuck; you're busy; you never really were serious about that writing thing; you're really, really, really busy. You'll get back to writing eventually, you tell yourself. You ignore the self-doubt and terror under the surface, that the blank page must stay blank because nothing you fill it with will ever be good enough. You'll never be good enough.

Maybe you'll never write again.

I wish you could see into the future, have the ability to turn around and look back at the whole picture. I wish you could see how you just need to grow up a little bit, to try something new, to learn to let go. I wish you could see the thousands of words you've put to a page, filling up that white space that so filled you with terror (and still does, to be honest, but you fight it). You're not the same scribble-happy little girl, but interpreting the world with words is something that will always be something you end up falling back into. I wish I could tell you that you'll find it again.

But you won't believe me.

*** 

I really, really wish I would have posted more about not being able to write anything during the time when I wasn't able to write anything, even just for those people who suffer long dry spells (including myself). Because I know it's easy with hindsight, when you are writing regularly, to look back and tell people it'll be fine, you'll get back into it eventually once you let go of your stupid perfectionism, learn a few tricks, and stop caring so much. And then suddenly you'll have almost two full-length books written! However, it's not so easy to see how you'll get out of a hole when you're in it.

But I'll say it anyway - you will find joy in writing again. It will probably be different this time; a different routine, on a different theme, more or different people cheering you on. But you will find it.

How do you get out of writing slumps? What advice would you give to someone trying to find joy in writing again?