THE WRITER'S QUEST
There must be a way to wear different hats.
Life's demands pull us this way and that.
The characters scream, 'write my scene not his!'
There's always a conflict resolved in sweet bliss.
Words to write down before they are lost.
Only a writer would realize their cost.
Each little word tells us the tale,
of heroes so special, the ultimate male.
These words can't be written in chaos or din.
The house must be quiet, the kids settled in.
Creating is never an easy affair.
It's dreaming and grasping words from thin air.
No one has said this craft would be easy.
No guarantees the words would be steamy.
Writing must be the ultimate high.
Why else would we work until sunrise,
struggle with commas, colons and ellipses,
de-was and de-had, and fix all those tenses.
Until our lines all flow like the wind.
It's amazing how well they all sound in the end.
When you've completed the polish and cutting,
you face the real truth of now submitting.
A stranger, not family, will see your pages.
The ones you've kept secret for ages and ages.
A book is a child, a babe new born.
It should never be handled roughly or torn.
Who is this person that says he can tell
that the words you created are ready to sell.
Such a decision must be very taxing.
It's only a stranger's opinion we're asking.
For in the end you accomplished your goal.
You gave birth to a story, a tale to be told.
Its crimson and gold, shines like a star.
A possession no one can take or discard.
It's yours my friend; your dream put in prose.
And nothing can tarnish the scent of that rose.