Coffeehouse

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I had some requests for copies of the poem I wrote for the coffeehouse (Bless you!!!) so I've copied it here for anyone who is interested.

THE EVOLUTION OF AN AUTHOR

It most likely began many years ago when you were still quite young.

Mom, or Dad or someone dear sat down

and told the most wonderful tales...and when

they were done and said, "Good night, my love, it's time for bed,"

"No, don't stop. More...I LIKE stories," you said.

In grammar school, fourth grade I imagine, the teacher

said, "Write a story...what did you do last summer?"

And you sat down, in all your nine year old glory

and wrote...and wrote.......and wrote.

And the tale was of dragons and witches and space ships and things

of all your wildest imaginings.

And your teacher smiled and shook her head,

"That's very interesting."

"I like stories," you said.

In junior high the math teacher insisted on

Long, involved problems designed to confuse

When your work was late, it wasn't the dog who ate those

non-existent pages. No, yours were taken by aliens to

a parallel dimension, studied and turned into interstellar

weapons of mass destruction...a tale, of course, which did not

impress the math teacher.

"But, it's true," you said.

"Maybe," he answered.

"But you still gotta do the work."

"Well...it coulda happened, just like I said!"

And the teacher shook his head and laughed...

"I'd love to know what's going on in your head."

Little did he know he'd eventually get his chance.

As you grew, you read Shakespeare just for the sound of the words

and the passion in the rhyme,

read Byron and Shelley and loved each line,

interspersed with Stranger from a Strange Land and

The Hobbit and maybe a Georgette Hyer or two...

You kept diaries and journals and wrote silly poems for

dreamed dreams out loud that became wonderful tales of

And when those same friends said, "Why are you talking to yourself?"

you blushed, turned away, ducked your head...

"Telling stories," you said.

Suddenly, you had babies of your own, or nieces and nephews,

or the kids of best friends,

and they all waited for your tales,

loved the stories you made up to entertain

Loved them so much you wrote them down,

page after well-loved page,

stashed away with your dreams,

hidden from the harsh light of day, the

humiliating chance SOMEONE else might read them,

Until, for whatever reason, you pulled those pages out,

spread them in the sunlight,

read the words, revised, corrected, read them again...

And realized, for the very first time,

I'm a writer. I write. It's who I am.

This Epiphany can have a most devastating effect on the family.

You are one with your computer. Endless hours, writing, imagining, telling those stories that have simmered and seeped within your mind for untold years...living with strange characters...talking of poisons and murders, vampires and ghosts, love affairs and time travel and things that go bump in the night.

You pay more attention to your critique partner than your spouse,

feed your family take out and frozen foods,

give names to the piles of laundry that dot the floors...

Mt. White stuff, Blue Jeans hill, Death Mound of Unmatched Socks.

For the first time in all your married life, your mother and mother in law finally agree on something...

"No," you say. "I'm writing a book."

And they shake their heads and walk away, convinced they were right.

Finally, it's done and you send it off, the next new bestseller, SASE tucked neatly inside.

A big envelope...room for a contract.

C'mon, now. Remember the first manuscript you submitted? Of COURSE they'd buy it!

Months later, envelope comes back.

"I'm sorry but your "insert genre" book isn't right for us.

Good luck submitting elsewhere."

Obviously, THAT editor was an idiot.

37 rejection letters later, you go back to the drawing board.

And write. And revise. And write some more.

And send it off and wait. You start another book and still you wait.

You submit online and watch your in box as carefully

as you watch the mail box...you find a critique group, you

collect more rejection letters...

Only now they say, "Fascinating premise. I like your writing- but...

Your story just won't work for us."

You've discovered THE BOX. Unfortunately...

You write outside of it.

You find out who your real friends are--

They're the ones who DON'T ask

if you've sold your book. The ones who DON'T say-

"Oh, I'm going to write a book one day."

Like it's easy. Like it doesn't turn you inside out,

Doesn't wake you at 3 a.m. with plot twists that won't wait.

Characters who don't behave, say what they should,

do what they're told.

And still you write. It's what you do.

Then one day...one very special day, email, maybe...or the phone rings.

No matter...you're not prepared, you can't be-not for this.

Like a firstborn child--life alters

You're elated, you're scared...

You go out, amazed. The world can't see?

There's a major shift in your reality.

You want to shout it far and wide and selfishly hold it deep inside.

Then someone asks, in all innocence, exactly

And you answer, "I...." and then you pause and think a bit-

Remember, this reality is brand new.

The words you wrote, the tales you've told, so long

You hold your head up proudly...

"I'm an author," you say. "I write."


	EPICon 2002 \| home Photos \| more photos \| Getting the Promo eBuzz Going \| Coffeehouse \| open mike Coffeehouse I had some requests for copies of the poem I wrote for the coffeehouse (Bless you!!!) so I've copied it here for anyone who is interested. THE EVOLUTION OF AN AUTHOR It most likely began many years ago when you were still quite young. Mom, or Dad or someone dear sat down and told the most wonderful tales...and when they were done and said, "Good night, my love, it's time for bed," "No, don't stop. More...I LIKE stories," you said. In grammar school, fourth grade I imagine, the teacher said, "Write a story...what did you do last summer?" And you sat down, in all your nine year old glory and wrote...and wrote.......and wrote. And the tale was of dragons and witches and space ships and things of all your wildest imaginings. And your teacher smiled and shook her head, "That's very interesting." "I like stories," you said. In junior high the math teacher insisted on Homework. Long, involved problems designed to confuse and bedevil ~~~~ When your work was late, it wasn't the dog who ate those non-existent pages. No, yours were taken by aliens to a parallel dimension, studied and turned into interstellar weapons of mass destruction...a tale, of course, which did not impress the math teacher. "But, it's true," you said. "Maybe," he answered. "But you still gotta do the work." "Well...it coulda happened, just like I said!" And the teacher shook his head and laughed... "I'd love to know what's going on in your head." Little did he know he'd eventually get his chance. As you grew, you read Shakespeare just for the sound of the words and the passion in the rhyme, read Byron and Shelley and loved each line, interspersed with Stranger from a Strange Land and The Hobbit and maybe a Georgette Hyer or two... You kept diaries and journals and wrote silly poems for your friends, dreamed dreams out loud that became wonderful tales of wild imaginings... And when those same friends said, "Why are you talking to yourself?" you blushed, turned away, ducked your head... "Telling stories," you said. Suddenly, you had babies of your own, or nieces and nephews, or the kids of best friends, and they all waited for your tales, loved the stories you made up to entertain and teach. Loved them so much you wrote them down, page after well-loved page, stashed away with your dreams, hidden from the harsh light of day, the humiliating chance SOMEONE else might read them, and laugh. Until, for whatever reason, you pulled those pages out, spread them in the sunlight, read the words, revised, corrected, read them again... And realized, for the very first time, I'm a writer. I write. It's who I am. This Epiphany can have a most devastating effect on the family. You are one with your computer. Endless hours, writing, imagining, telling those stories that have simmered and seeped within your mind for untold years...living with strange characters...talking of poisons and murders, vampires and ghosts, love affairs and time travel and things that go bump in the night. You pay more attention to your critique partner than your spouse, feed your family take out and frozen foods, give names to the piles of laundry that dot the floors... Mt. White stuff, Blue Jeans hill, Death Mound of Unmatched Socks. For the first time in all your married life, your mother and mother in law finally agree on something... You're losing it. "No," you say. "I'm writing a book." And they shake their heads and walk away, convinced they were right. Finally, it's done and you send it off, the next new bestseller, SASE tucked neatly inside. A big envelope...room for a contract. C'mon, now. Remember the first manuscript you submitted? Of COURSE they'd buy it! Months later, envelope comes back. "I'm sorry but your "insert genre" book isn't right for us. Good luck submitting elsewhere." Obviously, THAT editor was an idiot. 37 rejection letters later, you go back to the drawing board. And write. And revise. And write some more. And send it off and wait. You start another book and still you wait. You submit online and watch your in box as carefully as you watch the mail box...you find a critique group, you collect more rejection letters... Only now they say, "Fascinating premise. I like your writing- but... Your story just won't work for us." You've discovered THE BOX. Unfortunately... You write outside of it. You find out who your real friends are-- They're the ones who DON'T ask if you've sold your book. The ones who DON'T say- "Oh, I'm going to write a book one day." Like it's easy. Like it doesn't turn you inside out, Doesn't wake you at 3 a.m. with plot twists that won't wait. Characters who don't behave, say what they should, do what they're told. And still you write. It's what you do. It's who you are. Then one day...one very special day, email, maybe...or the phone rings. No matter...you're not prepared, you can't be-not for this. Like a firstborn child--life alters Perception shifts, You're elated, you're scared... You're published. You go out, amazed. The world can't see? There's a major shift in your reality. You want to shout it far and wide and selfishly hold it deep inside. Then someone asks, in all innocence, exactly what you do. And you answer, "I...." and then you pause and think a bit- Remember, this reality is brand new. The words you wrote, the tales you've told, so long denied the light. You hold your head up proudly... "I'm an author," you say. "I write." © 2002 by Kate Douglas return to Kate's home page