[Photo taken by my grandpa many years ago, not sure where.]

permission slip
Determined, the writer looks at a slip of blank paper with hope
that she will know what to do, that in quick succession a string
of sentences will begin to appear, and these she will manage to rope
into beauty and order. But one by one, the paragraphs cling
to each other muddily, and the writer must choose between wrestling words
and the more difficult task of unclenching from her pen. She wants an anchor,
of course, the one she’s so familiar with, to keep her tethered to her task, like birds
pecking at a half-opened tin until the lid collapses. But sometimes work is just ardor,
and she has to release from the grip of her own good intentions, until she is lighter
than the paper even, until she can erase herself and let the pen write her.

~Maya Stein

This poem landed in my mailbox this week.  Such perfect timing considering I was under the gun to finish the first two chapters of my book, which are due tomorrow.  Except that I didn’t really feel like I was “under the gun”, I simply had a goal to meet.  This work was due, so I had to finish it.  Plain and simple.

The work always gets done, and if it doesn’t, the world continues to turn.  I am rather worthless without a deadline, but with a deadline I’m the most reliable person you’ll ever meet.  Deadlines tell me when it is time to stop; deadlines tell me when it is time to let something go and send it to whoever is expecting it.  Meeting a deadline means I’ve done my work, and if I’ve done my best, then there’s nothing more for me to worry about.  If someone on the other end isn’t pleased with it, perhaps there will be more work to do and a new deadline to meet, but that’s something I can’t control, so I tend not to fret over such possibilities once my work is in the mail, en route or uploaded.

My first two chapters are due tomorrow, and I just sent them in five minutes ago.  A day early, which means today I can paint, and write another story, and walk in the sunshine, and know that, for now, this work is done.  The snake charmer in me managed to pull forth the right combination of words and and arrangement of  paragraphs that conveyed what I was trying to express.  They were waiting in a tangled heap when I started, and all I had to do was still still, breathe deeply, and let them show me the way.