I don’t normally reblog other writers’ posts but this one I must. It resonated with me and the journey I’m currently on. I’ve been struggling with the “obscurity” aspect of being a writer; and the words I read here opened my eyes to the fact that I’ve been treading down a dangerous path-slowly losing sight of the true writer that I am, and the story I should really be telling. I hope this touches you as well.
Imagine a man who lives on a tiny island no one has heard of. He has a small pension from a lifetime of labour in the mills, but now spends his time in a little house, writing poems. When they are finished, he writes each poem out one last time in his best handwriting, on sheets of cream coloured Basildon Bond paper. Then he rolls them up, seals each in a beer-bottle and casts them into the sea. He does not put his name to his poems.
Old age catches up and the man eventually dies. His notes, his books, are thrown out with the rubbish, his house re-let. No one even knew he was a poet.
Now, imagine another man who lives in the thick of the city. He’s worked at a long line of minimum wage type jobs by day, and by night he writes poems. When they are finished…
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