Catch a Falling Writer
I canít help falling in love with words:
Saxon, Germanic, Latin, or coined by the Bard;
short, long, terse, flowery, subtle, shiny words.
I canít help falling in love with a silver-nib fountain pen;
syringing black ink from a bottle like a junkie, or
swapping out a cartridge for my next fix,
scratching thoughts on hammered vellum.
I canít help falling in love with gel pens;
green, magenta, turquoise, according to mood
scribbling vignettes in a composition book.
As the Thames flows to the sea, so this ink
is my life-blood shed for the world to read.
I canít help falling in love with another journal,
lined or unlined with space for sketching;
blank, dated, or headed with quotes and triggers.
I canít help falling in love with a keyboard;
cutting, pasting, polishing, and printing in selected fonts.
I canít help falling in love with visions of a table
stacked with a new book series for me to sign,
fans lined up outside the door and around the block.
Sales plummet, royalties are paltry, publishers merge,
doors close to unknown, un-agented authors, and yetÖ
I canít help falling in love with writing, even as I hate it.
Please help me, Iím falling in love again.
In the words of punk band Chumbawamba:
I get knocked down, but I get up again.
Youíre never gonna keep me down.
Like the Beatles, I get by with a little help
from my friendsóthe Prairie Writers group.