I remember reading my mom's novel for the first time. I was working in a profession that required 150 percent of my attention, only 50 percent of the time. In other words, I had a lot of time on my hands, in between the busy days. It took a day to read her life's work. But I was useless for days after I read it.

Her novel was scrawling. She was a very smart woman, but it was still weak. The obscure, rambling, language wasn't strong enough to form a foundation for anything substantial. She was crazy. Schizophrenic, actually. It didn't matter how smart she was. She was writing from a dream world. The bravado of her writing revealed that she was convinced, in her limited and convoluted perspective, that what she was writing was the best story that had ever been written. It wasn't.

Her book was jarbled and half-hearted. From my perspective, the book was nothing more than the ravings of a mad woman. She rambled on about celebrity encounters that had never happened, using multi-syllable words indiscriminately. It was sort of tragic. It was evidence that she used to be smart, but was now just...well...crazy

And now, I've written a book. I'm scared about others reading it, of course. I'm terrified of their judgments. But more than anything, I'm terrified that others will read it and respond to it in the same way that I responded to my mother's "book". I'm worried that they'll read it and think that there is no real value or structure to hold it up.

But then I am reminded that I am my worst critic. And I don't have the option to drift into a fantasy world comprised of fake encounters with celebrities, like my mother did. I don't have the option to create a fake sort of confidence. I am forced to be subject to the harshest critics. Including myself.

I hope that people don't read my book and think that it is the work of a lunatic. Actually, I don't mind if they do. As long as they'll publish it.

When a child is being potty trained, there is much that is revealed about humanity in general. Many children have a difficult time seeing their first premeditated "effort" flushed down the toilet. It may seem strange to fully bathroom trained adults like us. But these youngsters hate to see their achievements disposed of. You see, these lumpy logs are part of them. Like a limb, or something.

I just realized that many of the poems of my youth have been lost. They may be doodoo, but I'm still sad that they are gone. In fact, most of my writings, drawings, songs, paintings, etc., will never see the light of day (although some of them have been shown through your shining monitors due to the miracle of facebook). Still, I'm sad that these things that I created are gone.

I guess that I'm not potty trained yet. 

Plink

The rain in Los Angeles
Hesitates like a wave,
Stalled by a tied tally.
Whether or not to weather?
The drops, like lover’s spats,
Range from slight speckles
To slaps of splats.
The sky waits, agape,
For a rating.

The rain in New York
Enchants you, at first-
The scent of the soles
Of a million drained souls
On drowned concrete.
It teases, tickles, and trickles.
Then it builds to a bullying bay.
Until, trudging
Through leaves, oil, and waste,
You’re left with its acrid taste.

The rain in Miami
Is sultry,
Pooling slyly in dry places.
Its rhythm, a welcome relief.
The sweat of the city
Between boundless bouts
Of dance and drink.
It’s a plink
Of a cool cube of ice
As it taps a perspiring glass.

The rain in Seattle
Is light on the righteous cheeks
Of sprightly artists
And aspiring thugs.
It mists, but wants to flood.
To pour underground.
To course through intangible trenches.