“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.
Dramatic Lyric 