It Must Be Nice (for writers everywhere)

It Must Be Nice
Though not precisely fraught with strife,
there are plenty of barbs in a writer's life.
Late night edits, rewrites, too—
rejection letters (just a few).
Friends who try, but never quite get
the reason we are so beset
with doubt, angst, frustration, fear,
and on occasion, angry tears.
"It must be nice to work from home;
and just relax, no need to roam.
It must be nice to sit and type.
I have a REAL job— not to snipe."
It must be—in that fantasy
you've dreamed up as your view of me.
Please, call or drop by— just feel free
to interrupt what you can't see.
Those pages? Those are sheets of pain
torn from my tired, laboring brain.
And if I run, and if I hide
in some cafe for peace to write?
"It must be nice to have the time
to sit and sip and and blow a dime."

But it IS nice. Sometimes that's true.
Sometimes there's joy in what I do.
I labor, weep, self-flagellate
despise the work, languish in hate
for every word that isn't right,
for every miserable sleepless night.
Then something clicks. The words, the pace,
the tumblers grumble into place.
Then SHE said this; then HE said that;
then their eyes met, and... and... then... DRAT!
No! Wait! I've got it! Then, she fell
and THIS— YES! There! That works quite well!
That stupid grin you spy me flash
as you drive by my cafe-crash
and spot me sporting in my seat?
It's not a facebook fun-time treat.
That joy, that rise, that breaking through
is what the suffering we do
is all about— this sweet, wild drug
of inspiration's endless tug,
becoming THIS NEW THING WE MADE—
becoming something we won't trade
for better hours, and understanding,
and tolerance, and hopes of landing
that next account, or that next raise,
and being given endless praise.

Am I rich now? You ask and smirk,
it's not as if I really WORK.
Don't writers make a million? More?
Can I have a copy? Three or four?
Signed? I'll share with all my friends
this labor of your endless ends.
You must be so proud of what you did—
hey, since you're home, my dog, my kid,
my ass-or-elbow for the night—
could you be so good, while you write?
Oh, I don't read much. Not my thing.
But since you're the new Steven King
and won't be busy, just with writing,
(and all the movie offers biting),
I'll drop off junior, you don't mind,
With all that writey-time you find.
Eight dollars? Wow, that seems a lot
for just one BOOK, I hope you got
a big advance like JK Rowling.
Oh, we just can not stop extolling
how clever you are! How worth that price!
The writer's life... it must be nice.
                          ©Chrissy Olinger