Oh Lord,
let me not be one of those who writes too much.
Who spreads himself too thinly with his words
diluting all the things he has to say
like butter spread too thinly over toast,
or watered milk in some worn-out hotel.
But let me write the things I have to say
and then be silent, till I need to speak.
Oh Lord,
let me not be one of those who writes too little.
A decade man between each tale. Or more.
Where every word accrues significance
and dread replaces joy upon the page.
Perfection is like chasing the horizon.
You kept perfection, gave the rest to us.
So let me earn the wisdom to move on.
But over and above those two mad spectres of
parsimony and profligacy,
Lord, let me be brave.
And let me, while I craft my tales, be wise.
Let me say true things in a voice that's true,
and, with the truth in mind, let me write lies.
April 24, 2009
Published in Adventures in the Dream Trade
