“Bullshit,” he cries out from the washroom,
“absolute hogwash,” he says as he comes around the corner.
“The words are yours and yours alone,
you choose to share them and nothing more,
so stop bemoaning their loss, pick yourself up from the bootstraps
and write you stupid son of a bitch.”
Hemingway poured us drinks.
“I know you’re right Ernest, I know you are,
but something, something is…”
He didn’t wait for me to finish
“Something is what? Blocking you?
Welcome to the world of writing lad,
Took you long enough to get here.”
“But,” again he interrupted,
“But what, you’ve been on the gravy train
for twenty some years when you didn’t have to think,
truly think about the words,
now you have to,
so as I said welcome to the world lad.”
He finished and slammed back his drink.
“I just…” he stopped me again.
He poured two more drinks and slapped me on the back
“this is a good sign Sender, a great sign in fact,
maybe you’re bitch of a dog will stop barking and your words,
which were already great to begin with,
will become even greater as you have to think,”
he said as he slammed his index finger into my temple,
“think, think, think, writing is a blood sport chap, remember that.
Oh and don’t take any prisoners.
Now, can we go drinking?”
I nodded my head, as I knew he was right,
I knew it and perhaps the time was here,
A mature wordsmith or at least maturing,
I grabbed my jacket and we were out the door.
Posted to dVerse Poets Week 40. A great collection of writers from all over the world. If you haven’t checked them out you should.