I hear it’s best to practice every day

in the morning, journal splayed out

just to the left of the cracked mug

you hang on to for sentimental reasons

 

They say, let the ink of your favorite pen

skate across the page in an unbroken line—

capturing each thought that drifts by

allowing it to have its moment

 

This is what I’ve heard, anyway

 

I know a few people chipping away at the marble,

chiseling chapters as they go. Some are strafing potters,

running their hands from bottom to top,

smoothing out the wrinkles with each pass—

at times creating more chaos in their wake

 

I am a bystander to their Herculean efforts,

cheering them on, suggesting sharper synonyms,

checking in on the antics of the side characters,

and fishing for a mention in their acknowledgments

 

They ask me when I will start my book

 

Repeatedly, I raise a hand to wave them off my trail

of brimming notebooks, coffee-stained prose,

and half-baked premises. Don’t you see

the safety cones? You can’t walk there yet!

It’s riddled with plot holes—the world has yet to be built!

 

They say, I already sound like an author