I am not a frustrated poet; I don’t try to rhyme my lines. I don’t try to use fancy metaphors, or the thesaurus a hundred times. I’ve no use for alliteration, adding avid airs to ardent analogy, or seducing incessant similes, inducing sweet insanity. I wouldn’t dare to define symbolism, or allegory or abstract prose, all I did was write a novel, about an old fisherman and his woes. You blamed me because my story, drenched with the sea, lent far too much description, and was annoyingly literary. You said I gave no answers, only plagued you with more questions, yet you read it till the end, like an unwitting fiction pedestrian. What harm did I do, I’d like to know? Did I cast your heart to and fro? Or was it the sea, flowing through my pen, that enraged and incited you so? I could slenderize my words, stifle the images, draw the plank, and shorten my sentences. I could write only action, ignore the sea, discard the subtle tension, the creative voice inside me. But then who would you flog, who would you blame, when the words let you down? Would you curse the sea, hate the old man, when all originality drowns? Please let me evolve, please let me work, find my writer’s soul in stride. So when you try my next book, granting a reader’s reprieve, you can curse that poet inside.
Yours in literature,