Talent versus Endurance

I’ve been writing since I was fifteen years old, staying up late so as not to be bothered, drinking tea and and eating Pop Tarts. Ten years later and the only things that have changed are that I now drink coffee, and write early in the mornings with toast.

In all this time, I’ve never learned if I have any natural talent or not.

I’ve met people in workshops who effortlessly weave a paragraph together that makes me want to cry it is so good. I’m not sure if other people can say that about me.

What I do have, though, is endurance, and dedication. I show up, caffeine and carbs in hand, and I write, and write, and write, until I get it right. I learn the hard way, I learn the fun way, and I practice what I learn.

John Donne wrote about two types of writers, the Ox and the Cat. The Ox is the writer who lumbers along every day, ploughing the field of pages. The Cat is the writer who lounges and lazes and sleeps in the sun, then in a fit of natural skill leaps up and catches a bird, and that bird is a masterpiece.

I guess that makes me an Ox, and I’m madly jealous of Cats, (and with that sentence I wave away the remainder of my sanity) but more than anything, I am just grateful to be a writer at all.

I would not ever want to be anything else.

Photo by Jos van Ouwerkerk on Pexels.com

Knowing my writing style has helped me write better, to accommodate my own needs as a writer, and to make use of my strengths. I know what I need to write, as an Ox, so now I turn the question to you:

What are you, Ox or Cat?

Metaphor

There is an honesty in writing that I’ve never seen elsewhere

because here, within the walls of a page

even a lie is true

so when I tell you that last I was haunted by a goblin

his yellow teeth flashing outside my window

his orange eyes winking beyond my reflection

it is absolutely true

and when I continue on, saying

that I woke up thinking I was safe

and that is when he struck

and fed from my very heart before my dying eyes

well, that is just as true

Sitting here now, ignoring the tapping at my window,

I don’t even have to tell you the goblins real name

It’s a poem, after all.

Midnight Walk

There is a road in the city that passes through the mountains.

Not many know it.

Those who do don’t speak of it.

The trees grow wild here

The path cracks and falls away

The moon here is always bright and full

Her light is your only friend

when the wind whispers your name

when the shadows ask you to come away with them

when the path seems a curse.

 

There will come a moment

when the moon is obscured by leaves and a dark mist

when the shadows seem to be dragging their nails across your neck

and you are so certain you are lost.

In this moment

ask for anything you want

and keep walking.

 

If you make it out

(not everyone does)

to a place that is real again

remember

never speak of what you lost

or what it earned you.