Success in Writing as an Art Form, May not be what you think it is

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Success in Writing as an Art Form, May not be what you think it is

Several thoughts on “success” and perspectives on it.

Who Is there to Tell?
Since I was 17 years old or so,
I’ve wanted to be
Hemingway and Fitzgerald
And later, Bukowski, Uncle Walt
And Roethke and Robert Sund.
I’ve wanted to write things
That people would read
And remember and remember me
For having written.
After an odd dream last night
About myriad weird failures
Centered on being lost,
I woke-up this morning
Realizing that
All those people I once wanted to be
Are dead,
As are more, in fact many more
People I once knew, who are also gone now,
No longer alive for me to tell them
About my triumphs and failures.
No longer around to read
Or not read the things I have written
And write.
Who is there to tell anything to any longer?
Who is there to tell?
Is this a blessing
Or a curse
Or neither, or both?
I dunno,
Who is there to ask?

Long life
If you live long enough
Or too long,
You might end up
Feeling sorta famous and successful
And imagining your obit
Will be pretty cool
And flashy,
Like some fancy guy
Who, you imagine,
Everybody wishes they knew, etc.
You may end up
Checking yourself out
On google a lot
And comparing your
Total number of hits
Per “(0.55 seconds)”
To other Google searches.
You may look at images
Of yourself there and click on
“More images”
And count the number of pages/lines
That actually have
Anything to do with you,
And you may decide that this
Is a reasonable
Substitute for having been
Stiffed by
The Pulitzer and the Nobel Committees.
And as you die
You may kid yourself
That you having been here
Made a big difference in the world,
Or if you live long enough
You might realize
What a lie that is.
But either way,
Following your
Long life,
You’ll be dead.

Success in Writing as an Art Form, May not be what you think it is

Piazza di Spagna, Rome, Image courtesy of Aleyna Rentz, Unsplash “The Spanish Steps, as seen from poet John Keats’ bedroom. This is where he died, meaning his last glimpse of the world was through this window.”

John Keats
“When I have fears that I may cease to be…”
He died at age 24.
So the next time
you catch yourself
thinking about
immortality —
Knock it off.

Just Weighing Separator

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