I often wonder,

What great poets and writers would say now,

Of where to find inspiration,

A spark that defines a writer,

The words they would have chosen.

 

I often wonder,

Whether I will ever find the right words to say,

Share the story which I dream of,

The voice who wakes me of a night,

I pray to find some guidance, yet all I find is books.

 

I often wonder, old friend,

What would you do to write?

Tell me, how I can be happy in my prison?[i]

Show me, how to let my mind misbehave.[ii]

 

Old friend, I often wonder,

How to put my faith in ideas when they scare me so,[iii]

What if I am merely playing out the act of being a writer?[iv]

One step on the stage, and the other in a book.

How can I survive the humiliation of my words?

Pray for a misprint to save me from what I cannot do, not yet?[v]

 

I often wonder,

If all our conversations will end this way.

You shaking your head, telling me that my fate as a writer is sealed.

That my words, terrible as they may seem, are inescapable.[vi]

I simply must write, if only to you.

 

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[i] Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, “I am happy in my prison of passion.”

[ii] Oscar Wilde, “A writer is someone who has taught his mind to misbehave.”

[iii] Oscar Wilde, “An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.”

[iv] Oscar Wilde, “The imagination imitates. It is the critical spirit that creates.”

[v] Oscar Wilde, “A poet can survive everything but a misprint.”

[vi] Oscar Wilde, “Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them.”