Ode To Writing

I went for it now, finally. My writing. It has been obsessive in periods, totally apathic in other periods. Each November has been filled with angst, only to top it off with total triumph and pizza by the end of it. I have written when I've been depressed, when I've been drunk, when I've been high. I have written when I couldn't put in words what needed to come out, when I had nothing to say, and when I had too much to say. I have written until my fingers ached, my head and heart were heavy, my imagination swirling away. I have written in word wars. Among people. On trains, cafés, benches. I have typed, I have used charcoal, I have used pens and pencils, even crayons. When I ran out of paper, I wrote on handkerchiefs and coffee filters. Half my novels were written on loose sheets, on the back of envelopes or in the book-book; some even got lost in the laundry room, uncountable others never got written at all.

This is for you, the written word, I salute you.

And in your honor I decided to finally move my writing ahead. To something similar to professional. To something that I one day will be able to hold in my hands, as a finished product. As a result. Something concrete, holding all the abstract in the world.

Today, I accepted a publication offer for my first novel.
A new adventure begins.
POET in the GLASS JAR