8/16/95

She sits quietly in front of the terminal, thinking to memories faded, jagged and distorted in memory, and then to the clear crystal images she draws upon for her stories and poems. They always came in bursts, always amid changes she didn't want happening. Later on, she could always look back and say what influenced the writing. She noticed that there was a large gap in her poetry. She had gone through months upon months of not writing since she left school 2 years ago, and all of a sudden her fingers were twitching to put pictures on the pages in front of her again.

There was so much going on now, so much she had to let go in her life so she could move on to the next step. The next step was a complete unknown, not even a variable that she could guess about. "Just when things begin to fall in place," she thinks to herself, "I have to move again. I'll never settle into a comfortable place this way."

The conversation of last night comes into her mind - forefront like a sunrise forcing you to open your eyes when you see it peek over the horizon. Last night was a reminder that she had been ignoring some of her needs and desires in life. To sit and read poetry, and have someone else experience what she went through to write it. And then, to have someone read poetry back ... only to find out they weren't reading, they were composing.

The thoughts aren't coming to her, as she had hoped they would. She had hoped to sit down this morning and just write long wonderful poems that would draw images out of mid air, jerking emotion from whoever read them. It isn't that the words weren't there, they just were still compiling, still formulating into any kind of phrase that she would put onto paper.

She takes a break, comes back to her screen, and:

Then I wrote DieHards and Leaping Into the Unknown

 

Jennifer Kelbaugh
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