Each time I sit down to write something I wonder whether anyone will care enough to read it. I've thought this about anyone who chooses to do this for a living. It's a daily beating of the ego which you must understand and rise above. Some days you want to give up, but if you're lucky, you'll work with terrific people who will cheer you on. Today I was feeling lucky.

The writer will wait,
for validation of worth,
which they now cherish.
Dreaming their ideas will cross,
the eyes of one with foresight.

Please, someone read this,
it is the blood of my soul.
Only the scribe knows,
the painstaking work within,
penning their words to page.

Sharing what is deep.
Praying for comprehension
as their heart’s pour out,
while their neck aches from loved work,
their minds forever in gear.

sjo/jazz

I think all Artists understand.

Ummmmm... yes and no. I understand because, to me, my blood pumps onto the blank page until it seems to pulse like my own heart. But if people don't get it, what am I to do? Because personally I cannot stop writing. Oh, if people attacked me I might become skittish about posting my fiction, or submitting it. But one thing's for sure, and that is I have to write everyday, whether in blogs or online journals or poetry or writing. I must write.

Validation from others is icing on the cake when it happens, and the stink of rotting meat when I'm rejected.

I understand. I just keep writing, though, because that is what I do, for good or bad. You, too, I know.