Each time I pick up my pen from where and when I last dropped it, I tend to scratch out a few paragraphs (like these), often teeming with self-deprecating chastisement, and then I set a goal or two (usually one), and then I start anew in my quest to be a more consistent writer. As you now witness, my pitiful public penance is now penned (vomit-inducing alliteration very much intended this evening), and I get to move forward. However, this time I am not making any grand promises I know I will not be able to keep. I know that my professorial and ecclesiastical responsibilities reduce my personal time, but I do want to write more frequently. I now teach the Teaching Writing for Secondary English Teachers course at my university, and I know that I need to lead by example. I know that only writing produces text.
So here is my conundrum: I can squeeze in small chunks of time, but I need to be smart about where I direct my writing efforts. I have a few thoughts, but would genuinely appreciate some feedback from my teeny audience. (That's y'all.) Where should I direct my efforts?
Option A: random personal narratives and thoughts (as previously expressed on this blog and other random locations).
Option B: focus on more important life-defining moments in my personal history.
Option C: finish up the scraps of poetry I have been drafting over the past several years (or at least some of them).
Option D: look to write something professionally (teacher-practitioner style).
Option E: just write curriculum.
Option F: none of the above.
Let me know what you think, and I'll take Ms. Giovanni's advice. (Poem posted below.)
“A Bench” (for Toni Morrison)
benches aren’t just pieces of furniture
sure
we find them
at rest stops where birds have stopped over
and truck
drivers have pulled aside
to smoke a
cigarette
(no matter
how bad they are for you)
and yes
in fabulous museums
we find
benches
decorated sometimes
with gold or
bronze
and the
faces of the famous
sometimes we
even find benches
among the
poor
which are
simply logs put across the other
or sometimes
just bricks
piled and
put deeply enough into the earth
to stabilize
those who need comfort
but benches
are actually
a metaphor
they are
friends we call on sad days
they are two
old ladies who bring
Duck Eggs
when your Grandmother passes
they are a
friend’s mother
who makes a
quilt when she hears
you have
lung cancer
and mostly
they are the voice
on the other
end of the phone
who says
“Write”
when you are
so sad at losing your mother
“Write” when
you don’t know where to go
“Write” when
the only person who can read you
is on a
Cross
“Write”
because it
is your job
“Write”
---Nikki
Giovanni
