Most of the time you don’t get to do any writing
A lot of the time you wonder where the writing went
Oftentimes you miss the writing
And missing writing feels like nothing else
Sometimes its like an absence of a horse between your thighs
Or a wave crashing over your head
Or a sweet swallow, a taste in your throat
Or an ache in your chest that hurts
Missing writing is a bit like missing a person
But the person is the real you
And you pick up a pencil and your notebook
Looking for substance and worth
For some sort of healing balm
You know you only have an afternoon
Or less until you are required
Not to write anymore
And that writing is hot
That writing is like an affair
It’s a hard-motel-fuck of a write
You make that time mean something
And you don’t wash your hands after
So you can smell yourself on your fingers
Then its off back to the front of the shop
Dressing the windows, selling your wares
You are the head chef of your own restaurant
You’ve got hungry customers that need servicing
Got something in the oven waiting to rise
Got some good stuff ready to publish on ice
Your larder is full of writings you did years ago
Back when you were cold and poor and thin
When all you wanted to do was be a writer
When all you ever did was write all day and night
And nobody expected you to do anything else but write
Back when you thought writing was all that writers had to do.
_
(c) Salena Godden. 2015
‘Funny Thing Being A Writer’
published in ‘Fishing In The Aftermath Poems 1994-2014’ Burning Eye Books
For more of Salena Gooden, visit her website