A writer eventually learns to stop asking

"what did you think?"

and realizes soon after

that all worthwhile feedback

will come forward single-handedly.

In fact a writer doesn't call him or her self

a writer at all.

But fancy themselves as such.

To write true, and truly write,

you must forget moral obligations,

simplicity,

complacency,

normality…

or that life is so unadorned and predictable

or disordered and strange.

To lose the facility

for sports stats or celebrity status.

To be so self-absorbed that no one notices you

until you raise your finger to order another drink.

To live in your little house or apartment

surrounded by the same, still, unwavering environment

in seclusion.

Everything in hand,

is a stage prop or party favor.

It's a forlorn domain of abandonment,

a succession of recyclables,

a storm of half-starved ideas in

a sea of paper balls that won't quite flush.

There is no true passion--

only blind obstinacy for the written word,

no gift

no natural ability

no refined practice.

Only dreaming every night

to be an ordinary somebody

and waking every morning

an aboriginal nobody.

To be a writer:

merely words.

Words that can either vividly project one's self

into any image

or words that you can boost someone's self sense of worth

or reduce them to a quailing crybaby.

To focus not on the story

and reap the benefits of its rewarding lore,

but on how the story may be told.

And retold.

A writer holds onto everything,

wandering aimlessly in a circle

with no where to set anything down.

The little things,

The words uttered from people's mouths.

The less than ordinary experiences.

No place..

to set them down.

Like a mailman in a snow globe

To spend your life spiritually secluded,

dormant to the world,

estranged from its people.

To live in anticipation of one's self,

to shatter the sphere of glass that surrounds,

to take a step into a mirror wide bubble of oblivion

and deliver.

To stare at a decade of your life

setting on a messy desk..

unheard of

unfelt.

And as one

who interprets himself as a writer,

no matter how emotionally perilous,

whether confined, crushed or

collecting dust in a display cabinet,

I know my place in this world.

And although I still ask sometimes

'What did you think?'

…I know where the mail ends up…

MBE 09-07-07