Unknown Writers Poem

Sweet of soul, with twisted plot,
Burning midnight oil--to get a shot,
Crisp and sharp, the story line--
Compelling characters that can lead the blind.

Escape to a world of artful pen,
Put down the book and read again,
Chapter by chapter, the author trades life,
Was it the butler, the husband, and the wife?

Uniquely crafted, to mesmerize,
As if words had never been this size,
12 point font, new times roman,
Where the heck is the story going?

Time for the hearts to race-- when the knife is out,
With a climax that will make you scream and shout,
And laugh and cry and turn you around,
So loud in your mind, you hear its sound,

The low belly growl of the writer's hunger,
As we grow old at computer, and wish we were younger,
Dreaming a day when your book is rewarded,
Instead of dusty in warehouse, wtih your copies hoarded.

Redford? Gibson? Whoever you want,
You've made the A-list and can party with snots,
But this is not really what has driven your soul,
For the story on the paper, was the seed of your goal.

Reclusive night. Again and again
With no one to tell you it's ready and then,
More edits, corrections, and you stay up later,
In search of a mighty word--that may hit the paper.

Don't worry about me--tho' I grow owly and tired,
Sitting alone at odd hours, can get you quite wired,
I sit still so long, that I forget to breathe,
I get involved in the story, and I cannot leave.

Now I'm told I must stop--I must give up this poem,
It's late in the night, but I've lit up my home,
My office is crowded, the characters wait to begin,
And if they all talk at once, a writer can't win.

"Slow down," I say, "I can hear all your all your voices,
My paper is blank we have many choices,"
"We'll share our story, please type our tale fast,
We can't stay for long, just as long as we last."

"Chapter 1 this is London, the story is dreary,"
"Can you make me beautiful? " "And me sound cheery?"
"Make the antagonist so he's as mean as can be,
For he's always a threat to me and to thee."

"I got it," I whisper, "I hear the music in your tale,"
And I'll tune and repair it, before it grows stale,
I'll rewrite and revise, until a publisher denies it,
I'll shroud my poor ego and smother each fit.

And when I've grown older, and no one's read my book--still,
I'll write another tale, in hopes that they will,
Writers used to say the idea came from a bird,
But I open my home and my soul, for the almighty word.

The ghostly vapors have left my room,
The daylight starts the daily tune,
But I will miss sunrise's glory,
For I traded my night for another piece of my story,

Day after day, week after week,
I watch others outside, as they run the street,
While I put blood to the paper, and invite the unseen,
Though worth my sacrifice--for they've made me their queen.

We party tonight to celebrate the end,
I embrace the vapors, they've become my true friends,
"Let's do a sequel, we had so much fun,
I'm drained and exhausted from my unending pen.

"Of course, I say warmly, come on back tonight,
I've nothing to do, and it feels quite right,
I'm more used to you, then the people I meet,
So it's good that the ink on the paper is sweet."

There must be strength to its drug, or maybe its haunt,
To draw a writer to paper, whether or not they want,
But I revel in the story, its voice, its creation,
As I imagine the glow of divine inspiration.

Still I am not without pride and I ponder the day,
When a reader with a hardcover book will say,
"Your words were so lovely, I had to underline.
I read all you write, would you please sign?"

And I smile as we walk, I feel the light and the glory,
As my reader admits she was touched by my story,
--Silent concentration and the nights in the dark,
Have just made me think, of a hook--and a spark,

Tonight, I will write, with dogs at my feet,
I will search to taste--the words that are sweet,
Oh, pen, do not fail, or dream of beaches and sand,
For I have a duty--and I have a fan

©2004 Colleen Hitchcock
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