Blather about cracks and light and the writing process

It’s been a week.

I drove to Roanoke and back, stopping overnight in DC where we visited an amazing new museum called Planet Word. I delivered my middle daughter to school and drove home yesterday.

In the meantime, I fell behind in the minimal writing I’ve been doing. Tanka Tuesday and W³ — you’re on my list for today. Readers, stay tuned.

For this post, though, my Stream of Consciousness writing exercise, I want to try to unravel the writing process a little more. I’ve been wrestling with the W³ prompt for this week which is to use line or lines from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem” as part of a new poem.

I had Anthem on repeat for a good year at one point not so long ago. It’s a great song.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in

Leonard Cohen, Anthem

So… process… I reread the words to the song, and immediately, the whole thing was playing in my head.

How can I take something so epic, so classic, and craft it into something new?

Enter Doctor Who. Remember the episode when the Doctor meets young Amy. For the record, it’s called “The Eleventh Hour,” S31 E1. My favorite line: “Must be a hell of a scary crack in your wall.”

Process — continued — Suddenly I have two sets of background singers in my head. One is singing, “Must be a hell of a scary crack,” and the other responds, “That’s how the light gets in, that’s how the light gets in.”

Seriously, I even hear a tune to their words. I can hear them going back and forth. And it’s like I’m just waiting for that lead singer to step up to the main mic and start singing the verses.

That’s what I have to write. The verses that go with the background vocals.

In the meantime, all I can think about is this homeless man that came in to eat the hotel breakfast at 6 AM of my day in DC.

I was drinking my coffee and doing my morning reading down in the breakfast area while my daughter was still sleeping in our room. He walked past me, and the first thing I noticed was the worn grocery store bag he was carrying filled with recyclables — bottles, mostly.

He wore a dirty army green jacket — and that was noteworthy to me because it was hot out, even at 6 AM. His hair was unkempt. He was unshaven. All this was one quick impression as he passed me.

I had my back to the food, so I didn’t see what was happening. I was reading, so I didn’t even really pay attention to it at all. There were a few other patrons there plus the woman who was keeping the food stocked and the area clean.

Suddenly, four men went past me in a hurry. They were big and wore vests with the word “SECURITY” emblazoned on them.

I heard the scuffle behind me, but didn’t turn to look.

They literally dragged the homeless man out. He cried, “Where is the humanity?! Where is the humanity?!” all the way out the door.

Then silence.

I sipped my coffee and pondered his question.

The woman who worked the breakfast came over to me. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He can’t just come in here like that.”

“I understand,” I replied. “It’s sad, though, isn’t it?”

“If he came back at 10, I would give him the leftover food,” she said. “I have to throw it away. I’d rather it be eaten.”

We co-existed in silence for a bit, each lost in our own thoughts.

“Thank you,” I finally said. “You do a lovely job here.”

But that story, I knew later, was the fodder for the verses to go with my insistent background vocals.

Because, really, where is the humanity? It’s masked by a scary crack. And that’s where the light gets in.