Liber Mater

I want to write books the same way other women want to have babies

Stories rattle around in my head like children crying for their mother’s attention

Some are more mature, asking to discuss detailed ideas

Others are infants, shoving the same cup in my face

In hopes I may understand their speechless language

They take work, emotionally and intellectually exhausting

Sometimes they take an idea and start running around with it

Painting everything green in the process

Rushing around dialogue without any thought to environment

It’s my own fault for not disciplining them

I really should create outlines and due dates and chores for them

Whip them into shape for human consumption

Just like children, it’s hard to let them out into the world

Where critics are waiting to break their bindings and hurt their feelings

When that happens I will say

Mommy loves you just the way you are

And while deep down I’ll know those books have faults

I’ll hold them close and whisper quotes


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