Writers are not architects, sliding their fine lead across the spine of their T-squares. They shovel ragged pebbles of iron ore into ovens as hot as the earth’s center. Then they ladle the liquid steel into molds of sand or wax or wood to craft rivets and rebar and girders, the stuff of skyscrapers and bridges.  

 PhotoThere’s no real commitment in attending a bookstore’s author reading. Usually, it’s only an hour of listening to other people’s pain without the obligation of dialogue. And, unlike a movie or other theater, admission usually is free so loss is minimal if boredom sets in.
 
Almost always, my pain lessens at these events, the convoy of despair detoured and sometimes even disbanded.    

Photo: At Boswell Books, Milwaukee

When I get all precious about being a writer, I like to think of myself as a plumber with wrenches as big as a toddler. And tubs of slime I smear on the threads of every joint I seal. But my favorite tool is the drain auger that snakes into the silver labyrinth of pipes buried in plaster and wood and concrete. As I unravel skeins of phlegm-glazed hair choked with the sludge of waste and washing, I feel, before I hear, the strangled gulp of sudden liberty. 

Read one hundred poems for every one you write.
 
Ted Kooser