The Dry Spell Is Over

Art by Fan Zhou

Sometimes writers don't write.  It is not the end of their writing life.  It is not the end of all creativity on  Earth evermore, though some writers, such as this one, harbor such fears like they are creaky wooden vessels and the harbor teeming with thieves and conscripted sailors.

I'm not sure I know what that means, but shivers are sailing up and down my spine, matey.  The main news here is good.  Yesterday I didn't think I could write.  This morning I got up and wrote.  By "got up" I mean made two cups of coffee.  By wrote, I mean remembered I title I decided on just as I was falling asleep.

Sometimes you get lucky and don't forget what you were thinking of the night before.  I got lucky.  Perhaps because title of my newest poem, "Rolling on the Floor Killing Elves," is not subtle.  Perhaps because it is, in some form, archived in a series of comments, a conversation I had on FB with another poet.  Whose name I withhold merely to protect her.

Who besides Sarah Sarai wants to be associated with "Rolling on the Floor Killing Elves."  It may be dangerous to explore so much about spanking new work, but, well, I'll find out, soon enough.  The thing is, the poem starts silly and self-evolves into a vehicle for dreams remembered and not, and a family member who never, until last night, visited one of my dreams.

I love creativity and the process.  I love seeing words spill out of me in combinations I never before knew.

One more possible reason for the end of the siege.  Last night I submitted two poems to a journal for which I tailored the poems. The poems weren't requested.  There is no guaranty they will be accepted and a great margin of possibility they will be rejected.  I wrote them after being told by an editor who had accepted one of my poems, once, my new work wasn't quite what this editor's readers were looking for. So I had, against all belief in the possibility of doing so, tailored my work.  Then discovered the journal was closed to submissions.

But, lo! these many months later, submissions were opened, I tried.  When one door opens, so do many many more. Keep your doors open, universe.  Sarah Sarai is moving on in.