"Not that the story need be long- but it will take a long while to make it short." – Henry David Thoreau, "The pen is mightier than the sword if the sword is very short and the pen is very sharp"- Terry Pratchett, And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, And when your fingers find her She drowns you in her body Carving deep blue ripples In the tissues of your mind, “Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light white hot - on paper.” - Ray Bradbury, “What is writing? Writing is telepathy.” - Stephen King, Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins, If I should fail - if I should fold I nailed my faith to the sticking pole, Je ne regrette rien - Edith Piaf, Just tell the damned story., Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find, the undercurrents tug again, Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin And maybe she'd give me a bath How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath, What's he building in there?, write your wrongs, you know how to whistle don't you?
The writer leans back; a slow arching of spine,
Burning shoulders pressed deep, with a sigh and a whine
To the creaking support of his tired office chair
Straining its life, to the edge of repair.
The keyboard is battered; he scratches his head,
Ten hours on one story; the poor goon thinks he’s dead.
Yet a breeder of sorts, is this bent shattered being,
He’s a Frankenstein doc, and a vision he’s seeing,
A chunk of illusion, a live beating slice,
He knows finished pieces of script have their price.
Long after the hours, and the days of bemoaning,
Odd snorts and expressions, the humming and groaning,
A sudden sharp kick to the ego commences;
A yank of the collar; the story condenses.
He slaps at his face to make sense of the type,
This heaving scrawled beast, made of ink which doth gripe,
As ’tis hauled and then shunted, bled onto the vellum,
Some substance at last, there’s a plot now to tell ’em!
Here cometh the creature; it crawls and it howls,
The bones of the bastard, just look at those vowels,
Stacked row upon row, five thousand small scrawls,
To get to this point had him climbing the walls.
This osseous scaffold won’t last long, mind you,
Tales itch to slope off, poems like to flee too.
Truly sneaky, they are, should his focus be lost,
For distractions fly rabid, with such a fierce cost.
They push and they shove the wild creature astray,
Filing safely away for some other damn day.
No, he must seize all consonants, regardless of blether,
Clad the beast’s bones in flesh, iron and feathers,
Kiss ‘The-Saurus’ in secret, his busy wrist flicking,
Spit, polish, and buff, get this baby a-kicking.
Grease up those elbows, as he spies the prize,
The arch of all triumphs, with fire in its cries!
He hip thrusts the bundle, kicking and screaming,
Out into the world, and the juvenile’s beaming;
A feature filled epic, with stars in its eyes,
Blowing minds as it tumbles, and opens new skies.
Will the crowd find such merit? He hopes and he prays,
Then deems them all morons if sadly it plays,
Out down a path filled with scornful postscript,
Convincing himself he shan’t mind the verdict.
Yet deep within him hides a yearning so bright,
Craving words that are sparkling, pluperfect, and RIGHT.
A final spell check, then a textural orgasm,
As the piece hits the aether, a shot-put phantasm
Of pithy one liners, and plot-stuffed adventures,
Primarily on show for a world of backbenchers,
Then later he hears the first drumming of steps,
That belong to the world and his wife, and their pets.
Reviews draped in sheets, of positive wonder,
See the writer’s shoe shuffle explode loud as thunder.
He balloons out his chest, high-kicking in glory;
He loves the world, and the world loves his story!
One week swiftly passes, the stage now deserted;
The shine on his shoes is long gone and converted
To an empty dull matt, as the tumbleweed flies,
And slips into silence; the spotlight softly dies.
A month on from there, the piece rarely is picked;
Six more and there’s nothing, bar passing tags clicked.
This is writing. This is acting. This is painting. ’Tis art.
This is living creation that tears you apart.
It is a purge and a joy within us that shouts
Much like Lady Macbeth’s bloodied hands, it will out!
Yet the chump’s had enough; he can’t live with such fear.
Then grasps at his notepad . . . he’s just had an idea!