The Writer
    by Chloe Shields


In the late hours of the night,
I sit with my pen,
Waiting for inspiration,
In my small, candle-lit den.

On torrents of ideas,
The words can come flowing,
Oh, the joy of nonstop writing,
When you just keep on going.

For the right idea and words,
The writer must fish,
Until the right one comes tugging,
For a good one, we wish.

Bad ones are thrown back,
While the good stashed away,
Stories ready to be written,
Any time, any day.

I have sat in my boat,
All this long night,
I’ve had many ideas,
Though none seem just right.

Suddenly there’s a tug!
I reel in the thought,
My spark of inspiration,
Has finally been caught.

And so I feverishly write,
On and on and on,
The words just keep coming,
Not stopping at dawn.

Oh, what a wonderful novel,
It is surely my best,
But from my trusty pen,
I cannot take a rest.

A call at the door,
A ring on the phone,
But no one shall see me,
I must be alone.

No interruptions,
To this writing craze,
If they come, I could mess up,
Could be thrown out of phase.

So I ignore everything else,
And let the words flow,
Just writing and writing,
It has to be so.

I just keep on writing,
Going for days on end,
I have a sign on my door:
“Boat and fishing gear to lend!”