Untitled

Chicano poet sits down to write

Pluma en mano

Empty page

Heart full of dolor y Amór

Dodgers game is about to start

Chicano poet will write mañana

Didn’t Want To, But I Did

I didn't want to write my Morning Pages today. 

I woke early and lay in bed, thinking and thinking about how I should get up and get started on my Morning Routine. Laying there, thinking of how it was the perfect opportunity to rise and shine before the sun and get started. 

But I just lay there. Thinking. 

I did so many other things when I did finally get up. I made breakfast, coffee, fed the kid, walked the dog, fed the dog, spot cleaned the kitchen, started to listen to a podcast, and more. I did so many other things, but I didn't sit down and do my Morning Pages. I didn't want to. I really didn't want to. 

But then I didn't have anything else to do after I did everything else. So I opened my journal, clicked my Pilot G-2 07 pen with the black ink, and slogged through my three pages. 

Then it was over. 

I did it. I did my Morning Pages. I showed up at the page and wrote. Even though I really didn't want to. Didn't feel like it. Was dreading the idea of even starting. I did it. I wrote and wrote and wrote all three pages of freeform writing. 

Maybe they were a benefit, maybe they weren't. But it isn't for me to judge or think about what they do, or don't do. Maybe it's nothing at all, or maybe it's something. That isn't the point. The point is to just show up at the page. Ignore them, delay them, be angry with or love them. Show up at the page. 

I did my Morning Pages today. 

Untitled Writing

There it is again.

That knock in the back of my head, when I look at the blank page and that little blinking line starts to mimic my heartbeat.

Breathe.

I tell myself. Before I start. Before I place my fingers on the keyboard and just hover. Breathe. It’s all going to be okay.

But it’s still there.

The voice. The familiar voice, that doesn’t sound mean or scary or angry. The voice that sounds soothing and comforting, warm. Like all it wants is to protect me. Keep me safe. Let me know, it’s okay to close the computer and get something to eat, or go for a walk, or sleep.

I’m still here though.

I don’t move. From my keyboard. From the desk and the computer. It’s still open and the page is filling up with digital ink and the cursor is moving and I am writing.

It’s going to be okay.

I tell that to the voice. It’s going to be okay, because I’m writing and nothing bad has happened. You can go find something to eat, or go for a walk, or sleep.

This is going to take a while.

A Visualization

I’m in my seat on the plane as it flies at 30,000 feet in the cloudless blue sky over the Pacific. Endless blue above and below as I sit and enjoy my complimentary beverage and pre-packed snacks of nuts, jerky and a sandwich from a little place in the airport. I picked it up before boarding. I knew the flight would take a while, I would get hungry, and I didn’t want to wait for a palm-sized bag of peanuts. Plus, I don’t like asking for a second helping. It makes me feel a little weird. So now I pack my own snacks. Cheaper that way too.

I’m watching the ocean under the plane. For some reason, the U.S.S. Indianapolis comes to mind. Headphones in my ears and listening to a podcast about creativity and how to keep it going. Munching on my vittles and almost done with my plastic glass of Club Soda and Cranberry, I glance over at the empty seat next to me. The script is waiting. I pulled it out of my bag before takeoff so I could keep reading and studying and working on it through the flight. It’s already been flipped through, dog-eared, highlighted, underlined and marked with notes in a code only I could decipher. Mostly because my handwriting is atrocious and even I have a hard time reading it. So even if someone got their hands on it, they would have no clue as to what I have planned for my character. I pick it up as the plane continues on it’s path. The sun is setting.

I’m in my hotel room. It’s nice. It has a little kitchenette near the door, refrigerator, stove, oven, sink, cute little basket of bagged coffee and creamers and those little bags of air thin napkins and a stirring stick. There’s a huge bed. Far bigger than what I’ve ever had. It takes up most of the room and looks so comfortable. I want to crash on it after such a long flight and car ride from the hotel. I did my research before I came and saw there was a train I could take from the airport to the city. But the studio told me they would send a car. They made good on that promise. They sent a black Audi A8 with a driver in a black suit, holding my name on a tablet. Nice guy. Great driver. There’s a small couch and photo of my family on the desk by the window. I put it there before I unpacked. I always put their photo up first. There’s a sliding door that leads to the bathroom. Big bathtub near a window, that’s a little weird, but not so bad on the 35th floor. Kinda cool. A stand up shower with a rain shower head, I love that, a toilet and a… is that a bidet? That’s going to take some getting used to. But there’s going to be a lot here to get used to. Because for the next three and a half months, this is home. I walk back to the living area and to the window and pull open the blackout curtains and sheer drape. There it is.

I’m at the window in my hotel room, staring in awe of the city at night. Ancient and modern. Bright and busy. Massive skyscrapers and tiny alleys with countless shops and places to eat. There’s so much to do. So much to explore in this new and beautiful world to me. There will be time. But for now, next thing to unpack is the script. Tomorrow, the studio is sending a van to pick us up and take us to location.