Unpredictable

Like a lot of my fellow citizens, I’ve been closely following the results of the latest U. S. election. If you haven’t been keeping score, it didn’t turn out the way most prognosticators had expected – the way, in their defense, midterm elections have historically broken when one party controls the Senate, House, and Presidency, as is currently the case. Obviously, some people are giddy and relieved, while others are disappointed and mystified. Being a member of the former, I’ve enjoyed the ongoing coverage of the slow-rolling updates, happily listening to people try to explain why things didn’t go as they had predicted.

Things not going as I predicted has been a regular feature of my life. I more or less signed up for it when I decided I wanted to be a writer. I didn’t know specifically that’s what I was signing up for, but it should have been obvious. I couldn’t predict how a 10-line poem would end when I started it; in fact, I didn’t want to know how it would end. That’s where the fun was. I just hoped that somehow when I was done writing, life itself would be a bit more stable and knowable.

It wasn’t, of course – at least all the stuff happening around me wasn’t. If I were honest, however, what I really wanted to know was that I was going to be okay, that I would be safe, that I would thrive, that I would be at peace. Nothing else actually mattered. I don’t think I’m alone in this. I would go so far as to say this is true of everyone on earth always and forever. That’s a strong voting majority right there.

Strange then how much disagreement there is. Then again, well-meaning writers can’t agree on what makes a good 10-line poem. The one thing I believe we can all agree on is that a poem shouldn’t be predictable. Somewhere in it there’s got to be a surprise, whether in its meaning or its rhythm or its rhyme. Why, the best ones keep surprising you through a buried magic that surfaces and resurfaces.

What a delight when you didn’t see the good part coming – but there it is, the thing you didn’t know but knew you’d like when you saw it. Right at that moment you don’t care what anyone else likes or doesn’t like, or how they vote, or what they wear, or who they read. How peaceful I feel when I admit this, when I let everyone, including myself, be.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com