On Writing

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

“How?” I begged it back.

“How can I write what others think,

What others feel and do?

They are not me, though I created them.

I am not them, though their source is me.”

 

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

“Why?” I demanded back.

“These people have no claim on me.

They owe me their existence.

I alone created them.

Their source is in me.”

 

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

“I can’t,” I answered back.

“I haven’t the words my people deserve.

I cannot do them the justice they so greedily beg.

They are not me, and I cannot live their lives.

I am not them, and they cannot live mine.”

 

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

And this time I complied.

I chronicled times I’ve never lived and places I’ve never seen.

I met so many people I had never known.

They are not me, but for a time I knew them.

I am not them, but for a while they knew me.

Published by

Dramatic Lyric

I am a musician, a teacher, and a life-long crafter. I love to read and write, and my favourite book is Jane Eyre.

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