First and foremost, some shameless self-promotion: if you’re interested in obtaining a copy of The Mariner’s Wife, my second chapbook, fear not! There is still time! The pre-publication sales period ends on April 18th. Check out Finishing Line Press’ website to order it (also, check out the amazing cover photograph by the amazing Bogna Kuczerawy — how lucky was I to get permission to use this?)!

Second and unforemost, I am a day late on my weekly NaPoWriMo update, which may, in itself, tell you all ye need know about how NaPoWriMo is going. We’re over two weeks in, and while I am still, somehow, miraculously, fifteen for fifteen, I feel as though I’ve entered my sophomore slump. The steam runneth out, and so, it feels, doth the inspiration. I’m at the point of NaPoWriMo where poetry begins to feel like a lot of practice, muscle-stretching and exercises: perspiration, with little inspiration.

Which leads to a question which, I think, a lot of writers often wonder about: what is it that makes a good piece of writing — or, more importantly, a good writer — is it practice and perspiration, or is it some stroke of luck, some natural talent, pure muse-given inspiration?

I found myself pondering this question while at home this weekend. My mother is an absolute expert at two things that elude me absolutely: cooking and decorating. First off: cooking. Whereas I regularly ruin Jell-o and can’t seem to make toast without burning it, my mother is a master chef. Seriously. As in, should have her own show on Food Network. You take one bite of my mother’s lasagna, you will never eat anyone else’s lasagna. My mother attributes her skill in cooking to the fact that she, well, cooks — she tells me that, when it comes to the kitchen, practice makes perfect. And practice she does: trying new recipes, altering old ones, tasting and salting and tasting again. I have followed her advice, to the extent my patience allows, and practiced, and I have gotten to the point where I don’t burn everything every time I cook. But, sitting down this weekend to her goat-cheese stuffed chicken with figs and roasted asparagus (I know — seriously), I knew that no amount of practice would bring me to the point of that dish.

So maybe it is natural talent. Maybe it is some spark. But maybe that spark is something different than the “you got it or you don’t” theorizers suggest. Maybe the answer lies in watching my mother cook, and watching my mother decorate. Upon reflection, I think that I have learned more about my attitude towards writing, and towards the teaching of writing, by watching her than by reading or studying anything else. When I cook, I’m usually frazzled and harried and dropping egg shells in a bowl and saying some unbloggable words. But when my mother cooks, she’s transformed, serene. When she’s dealing with fabric and paint swatches, with patterns that match and paintings that flow, she’s completely enthralled, she’s happy — she loves the work. She loves it enough to go on, to push beyond boundaries and difficulties, to continue to try , to ignore the no’s, the seeming impossibilities, to keep going, to create.

And perhaps that’s the spark, after all: not so much natural talent as the natural gift of patience that love can give. If you love the work, you’ll stick with it, you’ll persevere, and you’ll progress, even when it seems more like perspiration than inspiration, because you love it enough to know that if you stick with it, the inspiration will return.