For the past 7 months of my life as a student of creative writing, I’ve found that the most difficult aspect of writing fiction is getting started. Even with half-formed ideas, or characters swirling in my head, the act of beginning, of putting that first swath of blue ink on college ruled paper is the hardest. (Note: Every writer has their ritual, and mine seems to be blue ink on lined paper to start. I never would have guessed after all these years of avid computer use.)

Then, a few weeks ago, my fiction professor shared her own ritual for starting to write—reading poetry.

I instantly grasped the brilliance of this idea when we did an exercise in class. Several of us read a different, random poem aloud to the class, and the listening students jotted down phrases or words that caught their attention or for whatever reason particularly touched them. There is the vivid imagery of poetry, the way in which poets intermingle words as if the poem is a party and every person on earth is invited, no matter their race, religion, gender, sexual preference, political view, or creed. This idea excites me—inspiration to create words coming from words.

I’ve purchased two poetry anthologies from Amazon, and await their arrival.

Here is the poem I selected to read in class that day. A poem that seemed to say things I had thought of a dozen times before.

Alice Walker’s "Even as I Hold You"

Even as I hold you
I think of you as someone gone
far, far away. Your eyes the color
of pennies in a bowl of dark honey
bringing sweet light to someone else
your black hair slipping through my fingers
is the flash of your head going
around a corner
your smile, breaking before me,
the flippant last turn
of a revolving door,
emptying you out, changed,
away from me.

Even as I hold you
I am letting go.