Like many millennials, my obsessive teenage dream was to become a published novelist. Unlike most, I actually finished several drafts of a sci-fi manuscript and sent it to literary agents. That whole journey only led to hard lessons and heartbreak, but this poem (English class homework) reminds me of those landmark years.
Novel Rearing
A cry pierces pale paper.
A blue inked word
smudges my right hand like a bruise.
Unimpressive, blurry—if they saw…
But I am the mother.
He is mine.
Tiny first paragraphs click clack by.
I nurse every moment,
bleary eyed from lack of sleep,
but in my element.
The terrible twos are upon me and
chapter four stretches on.
I can’t cope with this tantrum.
Why can’t he count?
I know he is special,
but it’s all in my mind.
At long last: “The End”.
Declared in bold with a string of exclamation points.
He’s now eleven, downhill from here.
The first draft is built.
Spit and polish, nothing special
and then—perfection.
Merciful heavens, what is this thing?!?
Plot holes in his jeans ,
sagging middle,
tells, doesn’t show, like a sailor!
Will he mend with time?
No longer punk rocker.
His manners? Improved.
The second draft done, a third soon to come.
Thinking of college.
Time will test his measure.
I believe that he’s special,
someday, I’ll ask you.
To Reach the Unreachable Star 