by Pari Noskin Taichert

An idea is precious, more valuable than gold. But if forced, new quickly descends into old.
The most brilliant spark can lose its glow
When edited too much, when pushed where it doesn't want to flow.

Work each day, sit at the computer. Grab and observe like an emotional looter.
Characters demand their stories be told.
The writer transforms into mother, teacher and scold.

When I'm tired and don't want to open my heart, The story shards. It falls apart.
Honesty has another price as well.
My struggles spiral through all of Dante's hells.

The trends that flourish today Succumb to the folly of the market. They fade away.
The writer must write what is strong, what is true.
Alas, publishers and agents might not see its intrinsic value.

We push and we shove to become a household name, Often forgetting why we got into this game.
This isn't a competition or an agonizing race.
We've become writers through an astonishing grace.

To tell a story, to be understood, Brings a joy I never thought it would.
So, today, I'll face my chosen task. I'll hone each word with care.
Mindful, grateful, for this urge
The reader who is always there.

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