Red Hot Poker

Tonight, four of the precious members of my creative writing critique group met at an India of Annapolis on West Street. First, let me just say, the food, the wine, the service capture what taste and customer service define: Delicious and attentive.

But the delicacy of the evening is this - I write to them from my heart of hearts. I have been balancing on the high wire of a story for over a decade, balancing on metaphor and simile, sometimes in a sonnet and sometimes in free verse. Tonight, I read the words that were the most difficult.

I thank them but not with words that I can heave into my mouth. They understand the process, the lifeblood, the pulse, of the creative process - the becoming. There are few places where a writer feels like they might undress, knowing there is much, much at fault, and yet knowing, beneath, the bones are solid, strong, and telling. They help me prop the skeleton against the wall and discover the being. I am forever grateful.

Now I just need that red hot poker to keep me writing, writing, writing, the next untold truth (according to me).