Wednesday, August 29, 2012


A Labor of Love

Why do I write?
It's not always productive.
It takes up my time
And may be destructive.

I sit at my computer
And let the words form
Sometimes they're right,
Often they're wrong.

My characters tell me
Day after day
That I don't portray them
In the right way.

I fix one mistake
And then make another.
It makes me wonder,
Why do I bother?

Then come the rejects
That could paper a wall.
Are all of my efforts
Worth making at all?

I don't quit my day job;
I make time to write;
Sometimes on weekends
And often at night.

But joy's out of bounds
When that message comes:
"We'll publish your book."
I hear rolls of drums.

What a labor of love
This writing chore is,
But I won't change from it
To your job or his.

Mary S. Palmer

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