A couple weeks back, while walking through a bookstore in Hayes Valley with my mom, she pointed out a poem posted on one of the shelves, slightly hidden among the cookbooks, graphic novels and rare editions of the classics. It’s a poem I’ve heard before, one by Charles Bukowski called so you want to be a writer? In his words:
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it…
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
ENOUGH 