Blinded (My feelings on Writing)

by Susan Abraham

I stay blinded and slightly tormented by my art.
I cannot laugh at my comedy, cannot smile at my poetic weave of a kiss.
I am perked up by exhilaration only in thoughts.
On paper my words mirror an ungrateful mix of mist and fog.
Through these taunts, my writing ambitions move in a cautious daze.
Still, I continue to write, slowly and unfazed.

I think how can I be funny, it cannot be possible.
Once at a London reading, I recalled an incident to an author.
The tickled audience broke into laughter.
I felt celebrated...pleased.
The deeper I went into the short tale, the more they regaled.
I did not understand what I had missed.

Now I think, how can I be funny, surely readers are
jeering and not cheering.
How did this darkness happen?
One day, I will tell you.
Why I cannot feel the heartbeat of my words, cannot taste the power of my satire.

All these means that
I shall never have the luxury of resting on my laurels,
never be able to say...hey look, I am a proper writer now.
And never be able to embrace that perfumed wisdom.
Never be able to float on air.

To my craft, I am the bible's Martha,
so very in the 'here and now.'
working industriously, snipping a word here, tweaking a line there.
I am not a studied writer...I write only by ear.
And the furthest I get is 'This sounds ok over here.'
I am the mother looking on anxiously
straightening a son's collar...brushing dust off a shoulder,
I grit my teeth and brace myself for this messy maze
Smiling only when somene pops a hearty praise.

To the literary agent, I write dangerous query letters,
What do I say? Perhaps just, 'Have a Nice Day.'

But my senses are sharpened, I rely on instinct and trust
And my ears strain to the words of friends,
And to feel if in myself if something doesn't work
then I shall keep trying harder for the better.
And that not-knowing becomes a strength to the blissful me whose magic words I cannot see.

For now, I will continue and not discontinue
some romance, some children's, some satire, some horror
A footstep here and a footstep there
And gingerly onwards... my elusive fun in the sun.