And now, an excerpt from a famous poem by Charles Bukowski entitled “So You Want To Be A Writer.”
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love. the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
I think of this poem every time I sit down to write and nothing comes out. If I have to force it, it’s not worth writing; the best stuff comes effortlessly because it’s born of necessity. Today, on this first day of May, 2013, there’s only one thing I must – because it “comes out of my soul like a rocket” – say, and that is this:
Today my baby turns one.
There is nothing more awesome.
And there never was.
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