We had a good time last night, and we learned a lot about writing stories. Some of this poem is true. Hell, all of it is, but I am not upset or bitter, just smiling.

The writing workshop begins with a lecture
admonishment of the babies at the table
from the Matriarch of pretty prose
double spaced, named, numbered
your childish stories are not.
And where is your stack
of marked up, hacked up, amateur scribbled up copies.
How can we discuss these joyous, feeble jokes
if we can’t read from our notes?
Couldn’t you read between the lines of my
directionless letter?
Do you know nothing of this business?
Why on earth are you here?

A child I am to this world of round tables
butted up to make one
to rub egos in each others’ faces
our soothers clashed in storied war
our chests uncomfortable, tight
blocking knowledge and opinion
pressed by an angry mother of word
guarding the truths we all know but are scared to admit.

My writing is not the best
but neither is theirs
nor hers.
We’re all bobbing in the same boat
and the far shore hides from our pens.
We won’t make it if we don’t row, together
write from within
agree to disagree
to stroke each other’s fears
and encourage our creative talents.

Spit out that sickness, young child
Row, write, and grow.
Behold the truth and magic of all written words
Labeled, numbered, or not.