It is mostly these that creep up on you.
Fears of never making enough sense to keep an audience.
Fears of never making it to the shelves.
Of waking up someday and realizing this thing you have with words is.
It is being broke.
To social invisibility, internal confusion, nervous tension, mental strain.
And all the words and phrases used to describe a lunatic proud of her paltry creations.
It is private shame.
Not being able to reach inside your own dreams.
And the damn clock keeps ticking.
And the sun rises and sets.
Every. Other. Day.
And yet nothing changes about when?
It is a slow slow kind of life
In a fast fast moving world
Where nobody sees you,
Hears your shy hellos,
Or bothers to ask about the nonsense you’re writing.
Until you are dead.
And your letters are discovered buried in some old wooden box.
In some ramshackle apartment.
Suddenly you’re a genius.
The whole world knows you.
They talk about you on TV.
You even have a name.
You’re Jack. James. Pablo. Susanne, with two ‘n’s.
Or whatever you want it to be.
You’re no longer the creep that moves in the shadows with a pile of papers.
You’re no longer the creep that lives around the block with a receding hairline or the bad clothes.
Your once forlorn life jumps on fame lane.
Without warning you’re an epitome of true talent
And every one sentence you’ve written is quoted with so much pride.
It is only now you know what it takes to be a writer.
All of your damn fears and all of your damn dreams combined.