There are hopes and dreams and thoughts and then there is reality. The reality of wanting to write a book and either not having anything to say at all or not knowing where to begin. Either is harsh and unfair.
After all, with self-publishing so easy to do, there really is a plethora of books out there that are uncensored and unedited. Each, in their own right, believes theirs worthy of readership.
For me, I do it because I need to. Not for the money, and not for the fame. This is a pure case of inner drive. Once done it would be nice to have it read but this is not an essential component. Perhaps because one day I believe it will be. Maybe after I'm dead. Who knows. Mine is just to output.
My favorite is when I gift a copy of Broken Axle Spinning Blind to somebody and they don't expect anything of it because the author gave it to them. There is a stigma around getting the author's work from the author. Then, there is the usual reaction. Shock and disbelief that it's good.
Poetry isn't for everybody and not every piece in a volume will be your favorite but it is good because it is personal and unbridled. It is raw and pure and something almost not intended for others to know. Therein lies the justification. That look of shock and truly not expecting to connect with something that somebody gave you. Beyond that it is a matter of time. Just waiting to be discovered.
Some things you have to market and work at getting out there. Some you just have to plant. This I planted. It's a seedling.
With each person who reads it, it grows. But it is not enough to read and to connect. It is meant to be shared. Shared with others and shared with me. This is the difference between standing in a dark room full of people and taking off all your clothes and feeling safe and then having somebody flick on the lights.
Decide if you are the one standing bare or if it is me. Perhaps we are nude together and in this way completely robed.
