by Robin Byrd

In the book, The Poet’s Companion, the authors Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux tell the reader to continue to write, “to do what Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy asked: to add your light to the sum of light. Do it with patience, and love, and respect for the depth and difficulty of the task” (Addonizio & Laux, 1997).

Every couple of four or five years, my writing changes. If I focus on that too hard, I could begin to think I’ve lost my craft. Instead, I try to remember that as I grow, so does my approach to writing. At worst, it feels like scratching in the back of my throat, a cough stuck behind mucus, and an overwhelming urge to gag at times. The overload of fodder that clogs my brain can feel like failure to produce. Or it would feel that way if there wasn’t the part of me saying, “just a little bit more and the idea will speak.” In times like these, I have to respect the depth and difficulty of the change. Change is inevitable in all things, a part of life.

I have this great idea about a new play – a work akin to nothing I have attempted in the past. The idea itself is in and out of allusiveness, grainy and foggy with moments of clarity. Clarity arriving in small spots of light like sun coming in through the clouds. It’s an odd sense – this new thing. It’s also exciting to see what the end will bring – to go toward the light, as it were.

For months, I’ve been feeling like I’ve almost got it.

I find it in my poetry – little hints of what is to come. I could be wrong, but I keep thinking that if I let the poetry flow, it will lead me to the “first words” of the play I am trying to begin. It will lead me to the page.

This baby is way overdue.

Addonizio, K. & Laux, D. (1997). The poet’s companion: a guide to the pleasures of writing poetry. W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.