Each day, I go to work; / there, I’m not a writer, / but am who they pay me to be.
Ideas and inspiration / I relegate to scraps of paper, / which accumulate throughout the day.
I rush home to fix dinner / and stow the ideas on my desk – / I’ll have to review later.
Then I read with the kids, / after baths are done / and tomorrow’s lunches are made.
I hear giggles and see smiling faces / and little fingers with scissors – / my ideas become confetti.
I calm myself – I have tape, / they are God’s gifts, I remember, / not Devil’s creatures sent to destroy me.
After bedtime hugs and kisses, / by computer screen glow, / I piece together ideas,
Write and rewrite sentences – / I’m close to something good, I know; / if I could just find the right word…
I don’t aspire to be / the next literary great, / only to craft an entertaining read.
Some days it flows, like a river, / other days it blows, like a geyser – / It’s all part of being a writer.
I wrestle with sentence structure, / contemplate punctuation, / Google questions about grammar.
I make the plot and redesign, / halfway through, I change my mind; / which I can do, because I’m a writer.
Minutes blur into hours; I have no sense of time / my word passion is hard to explain, / and most can’t understand.
Reluctantly, I retire for the night, / so tomorrow I can do it all again; / more than anything, I want to be a writer.