In Personality Theories class I studied perspectives and the truth that no one knows the full truth. What we each believe depends on the person, and what we believe about ourself depends on who we are, but we just can't look at ourself from an objective perspective. We can try to, and we will have clearer results. But self analysis is never perfect.

When we studied Nature Nurture, the professor seemed certain each of these influences carry half the weight on us on determining who we are.

I used to say I never had writing block, just periods of not writing that I accepted as the course of writing and not writing I would inevitably experience. Maybe this helped me with the writing which followed the dry spells because I was not fighting the dry spell, just letting it take its natural course.

When I was in Berea College, the well inside me for words was turned on. I wrote and wrote and wrote, often creative poems, constantly journaling, recording every word and every thought, then also always completing my essays for school, and often creatively. I believed I was going to be a poet professionally. I already had published over ten poems. Now I've published forty.

There was no turning off my well of creativity. But I think there was one thing that could do the task of shutting me and it did inevitably happen that I wrote less. I am not certain this is why, but I am no longer on 2000 mg of Depakote. I take half that amount now. I think that some of my creativity originated in over medication.

Now I certainly write, and I likely will if my doctor tapers me completely off the unnecessary mood stabilizer, but it is more that I am crafting the language now than they are firing out of me uncontrollably.

My analysis could be wrong though. It might be I just write poetry with or without effort, but it waxes and wanes.

Crossing

Walking across a most rickety bridge

Praying to God that she hold me

Down underneath the muscles sing my dirge

But I know better than them

Oh the geese they did fly through

the arched reams

In couplets and triplets they soared up

Just to land on the brown muddy water.

May 7, 2010

Berea, Kentucky