Drawn Out

There are stories then there are facts

and sometimes the facts of a story are true

and the fiction is brought in to change names

or alter the truth to fit a slot, usually of time,

so the compactness will draw a crowd.

Write a nine-hundred-page book and it lands

on the discount shelves or worse, if that.

Write a ninety-page book and stock runs out

for the clamoring answer-starved masses

like crack addicts looking for a quick score.

I stopped writing books since I can’t out-guess

the audience or the critics or agents, to be sure.

But I can’t stop writing so here it is, and now

there’s a blessing in the activity even if I have only

the stack of rejection slips to show for the effort.

I should feel bad, I guess, disappointed beyond hope,

but I keep at it like an architect possessed, like

Dali at the easel, except for the lack of accolades.

I figure I can sell direct to Wal-Mart, no small feat

from what I’ve read in Inc. and others but I like a

challenge that draws blood to the head and

strikes fear to the soul.

So I concentrate on the writing, not the agent

I never had, not the contests I haven’t won,

not the legacy that will be a lonely blog, if that.

Advertisements