Of Desires and Old Receipts

Writers are power-hungry.
They control their own world. They control the lives of countless characters. The control the emotions and inspire the actions of people they don't even know.
Writers have more power than the U.S. President, and it's all in their head.
I want to be one. I want to be able to make people laugh, cry, and dream. I want to be able to make people fall in love. I want to inspire them. I want to give them something to live through when they have nothing else. And all without knowing them.
It's amazing.
What could be better?
Aside from that, I just want to be that entity, the mysterious one who's imagination is a thing you can pick up and sink into. I want to be an entity from my house, sitting on a pillow in my pajamas, ignoring the telephone with a laptop on my lap, and typing madly to finish a chapter before my deadline. I want my editor to knock on the door, but I won't hear, because I'll be too absorbed in what I'm writing. She will have to pick the lock with the bobby pin hidden deep in her purse underneath all the manuscripts and old receipts. When she bursts through the door, she will stand in front of me until I look up, and I will jump five feet back on my cushion. My editor will laugh, and then she will be all business.
I want to dream about my characters, and wake up inspired.
I want to see a published copy of my book.
I want to stand around the set, insisting on what has to be while they make a movie out of my book. I want to see the actors, talk to them, and transform them into my characters in my head. I want to sign books, see all the people, and realized how many lives I have touched.
More than anything, I want to write something that I would like to read.

Eagerly,
Rosie L.

Just a Little Poem I Wrote

I can't concentrate, and the words in my brain just won't straighten out.
I have phrases, have ideas.
I have thoughts.
I have poetry.
But I can't seem to get it out.
My pen tip flows: a waterfall of blue-black ink.
Blurring at the edges.
Agitating me more.
My ideas, though, are not like ink.
They don't flow, they won't sit on paper.
They will sit and stew in brain matter.
They will float and fly and never alight.
They will remain half-formed because they just won't cooperate
Like trying to catch doves in the morning.
They say: Write poetry. How hard can it be?
Pressure.
Pressure to win, because if I don't, what will become of my self-esteem?
Everyone else: wonderful poets.
Give me advice. They write
Amazing poems.
They write ideas, not complaints.
How? I wonder, as my pen tip flows.
They don't understand my plight.
Plight, because this is my future.
These disobedient ideas
This pressure;
I am a writer
But of fiction: without rhythm or rhyme or any of those cursed, blessed plagues.
Fiction: my straightforward fiction.
My poetic fiction.
My comfortable fiction.
Without pressure: my world of chapters and plots,
Characters, and, ultimately, inescapable ideas.
Even fiction is no longer comfortable.
Harsh editors.
Rejected by publishers.
Poetry
And fiction
The fate (and delight) of a writer.
Who was to know?