Concentration shot by noon, scraping out rice pudding
from a plastic container, I have revised three pages of a
23-page short story
my boredom growing by the second
hankering to find the perfect climax in a piling
mess of words
characters flat
conflict out of tune
voice and tone mind-numbing
trite, sentimental
while I fight off self-doubt
watch it slither down my body
no one to validate me
no Gordon Lish to watch
over me.
If I fail I will die with no
name, my family will dig up a hole
throw me in and paste a picture of me
as a rosy-cheeked teen, in lieu of an epitaph
a priest chants the Ave Maria
I’ve broken my promise to never write a death poem
but I can still save this one, watch me, salvageable, be-
lieve me an idea
has flashed
here at noon and I’m rewriting the ending
eating some chocolate covered almonds
leaving brown marks
on my laptop keyboard
maybe this
will tie it all up
in a neat tale
if you’re lucky
I’ll let you read it.
How often we writers write about writing, eh? It consumes us!