A Poem for Authors

If you want to become an author, fair warning:

There might be some sleepless nights, like the one this

Poem was written on,

This vomit of words, this cacophony of clacking keys, these random

Returns

Giving shape and purpose to my thoughts.

But back to writing.

Writing will make you come alive. It is

The fire in your belly demanding to be let out,

The fiddling of your fingers itching to type,

The longing of your eyes to see words appear on the screen.

In your writing, you can pour out all your anger and disgust with the world

And then fix all its problems on the next page.

If you hate something, you can change it.

If you love something, you can have more of it.

If you need to say something, you can say it.

No more closing the book, thinking “I could have done that better,”

Because you are in control!

The characters obey your commands!

The story follows your lead!

…except when it doesn’t, and they don’t, and you aren’t.

Once you create a story, you’re bound to it—it will take you with it, kicking and screaming, if necessary.

New characters will appear out of nowhere; they will write themselves into the narrative.

Plot twists will surprise you;

Conversations will speak to you;

Your own actors will move you to tears with their performance.

You’ll find yourself saying things like, “I love how he said that!” or “Wow, she has really progressed as a character!” as if you are watching your own children mature and grow,

Because, in a way, that’s exactly what’s happening.

And, not unlike having children, at some point,

You’ll begin to wonder if you’re still writing the story, or simply being carried along for the ride

And when that moment comes, you will want to stop, or take a break

But you can’t,

Because now the story is a part of you, and you have become an author.

If only the poem could end there…

But as the pages turn endlessly and the story stretches itself out,

Reaching the end feels like swimming toward the horizon,

You wonder, “Am I wasting my time?”

And you think about the responsible things you could be doing—the career fairs and the internships and the “networking”—

Then the sleepless nights will come.

The nights when that nagging question in the back of your mind won’t leave you alone no matter how you try to push it away, the question

That every author from Homer to Rowling has asked and reasked:

Will anyone ever read this?

But on those sleepless nights, when that question refuses to go away, I like to take solace in this thought:

If I never make it, at least I came alive trying.