Thoughts squeeze through hopeful doorways. What will they think? What was I thinking? Who is the person who ties up my bowel and steals sleep from waiting eyes? No, it isn’t a grammar king in wig and gown or a phantom English teacher poised to tear out my pulsing inspiration. The one I most fear is no distant friend or passing acquaintance of my passion.
Draft after draft of my first collection bounces off satellites in a constant triangle between editor, agent and I. The unknown begins to divest itself of clothing as my dream draws closer to nakedness. The beginning has escaped me and the ending is in sight.
Like my daughter’s first steps or my son’s first ride without training wheels, poetry and prose play ‘musical pages’ with spell check until I have to let go.
I could write a whole new nursery rhyme about how the clock ran away with my hands or how this egg head is not called Humpty but all you really want to know is who is my Goliath and if there are any good stones in my sling.
You have grown in stature since we last met. You, my reader, are the one I most fear and yet love. You will stand or fall at my feet. You can mock, scoff, or slay. I’m exposed in chapter and verse. So, forgive me for saying so, but, biblically speaking, I hope you get stoned! Then I can rock.