Lost: One mojo
if found, treat it kindly and give it a little inspiration
I am not sure if it is the fact that moving house has finally caught up with me and I am experiencing a flare up of ME symptoms, or I just can’t get used to a new environment and new ways of doing things, but my writing mojo has gone on a long walk and it hasn’t come back. I have sat down and journalled without problem, but being creative seems to have completely passed me by, I do not have the words. I have tried starting poems, thinking of what I want to write about in my head, and then put pen to paper and nothing comes… not even sitting at the laptop is inspiring me. I need to take some time to read and listen to more poetry, and more importantly, to rest and let it come back when it is ready…. so apologies, I will be back, I am sure, but for now, I am taking a little break from Substack and the ‘need’ to create!!
Anyone seen my mojo? Maybe it's under the sofa, or the back seat of the car? It has to be somewhere Didn't I just have it? I used it a few weeks ago Wrote a poem Stretched my brain muscles but they seem to have shrunk lost because now I can't do it haven't the heart to, my mojo has gone I can't find it Is it in a cupboard? Under the bed? Trapped in my laptop in the ethers somewhere? Creativity waning Doubts creeping Tensions rising This bloody mojo has to be somewhere so if anyone finds it please return thanks in advance I shall just nap here til you find it
Until next time
Lisa x
Come back soon whether you’ve found your mojo or not, it’s probably gallivanting with mi e somewhere nice.
Last night I was reading the commentary section in the Annotated Poems of T.S. Eliot and it has an excerpt from one of his letters where he's talking about periods of sterility. It is a consolation to me during these periods, which I've had many of in my life, to think that my favorite poets have had them too.
"I think... that it is a right part of the labour of going on writing poetry to have these periods of sterility and bafflement... They should recur throughout one's active life. There have been several periods of considerable extent in my own life, when I have felt *almost* convinced that I should never be able to write again; or when I have produced something with great labour and found it still-born. In fact, these periods seem to make up the greater part of my life. . . .
Now in the periods of sterility one has to have recourse partly to patience and waiting; that is the passive side. But one can also do much by filling up one's mind-- partly from books, from interesting oneself in new subjects in the outside world, and partly from one's experience and study of human beings. Also, one can do much by widening one's taste in poetry, and saturating oneself in authors who are not immediately congenial; and by technical experiments in verse of various kinds. All these activities will help to preserve you from the common danger . . . of diffuseness, and help you to gain concentration. "
Not only does he have them, but he seems to think that they are in some way necessary to growth as a poet and to the nurturing of the creative life. Not that knowing that makes one feel any more comfortable when one is in the middle of such a period. I like that Eliot says he is almost convinced he will never write a poem again. But I like his prescription at the end for what to do during those periods: read widely, be a close observer of human beings, and try technical experiments in verse that you don't expect to go anywhere, just to keep in practice.