Alone on a Shelf

The Rule: I write for recognition and published.

The building was old. The automatic sliding door no longer worked. On it was a hand written sign that said "pull." Inside, the carpet was torn up revealing the plywood floor. Unrecognizable books lined the shelves with red discount stickers. This was Crown Books store, ladies and gentlemen-once a popular book vendor gone done the crapper. This is where all the literature rejects, the pariahs, the used and abused lay to rest, rotting on a shelf crying for attention like a mangy mutt poking his dreary eyes out of his dog pound cell.

Thinking about all the hours, the agonizing editing and laborious rewrites I have spent on my book, thus far, I think of all the authors who spent years, their blood, their tormented souls to put words on a page, to publish it, try to sell it and ultimately end up just sitting all alone in a dilapidated store where the pages are bent, the ceiling is falling apart and the cashier looks like a homeless man, instead of someone genuinely cares about books . I felt humbled. On average, most published books will rot just like them- and if I am lucky to get published, I have a good chance of ending up like them.

As much as I dislike the thought, I have to realize my writing will more than likely take me no where. I am not entitled to a cushy job as a full time novelist with people everywhere talking about by latest novel, long lines of eager fans clutching previous works in the arms forming lines outside bookstores ( the popular ones). It will more than likely die a quiet death.

So as I come to the word processor filled with hope for this piece of art to have a better life, I have to realize that it might not last longer than it's birth, and I have to only take joy in the process of creating. That creation is its purpose.