Hours, days, weeks, months

Even years.

The incessant scratching of pen on paper

Or the stubborn click-clack of fingers pressing keys.

The pounding in the mind, early and late, beginning and end,

Everything working in tandem to create

Words. Worlds. Stories.

Maybe a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred. 

They are all the result of so much work

A journey that rarely ends. 

All of the precious time

Used to make

A world come to life,

The characters come into being

The words into inspiration

Are valuable.

Yet

How achingly terrible it is

To realize

That so few of these ideas ever reach

The hands of reality.

They stay set on lone, frayed notebook pages,

Or deserted on long unseen virtual documents. 

Some with courage post it online,

Some send it to publishers, small magazines or huge firms.

But how many meet a single eye?

How many ‌effort-heavy, soulful words have the chance to touch someone’s heart, without being discarded at a first, horribly decisive glance?

Many stories are left behind, lost to time, destined to decay before they have the chance to shine

Even though

They should all shine.

Each word, and all the thought that brings an author 

To draft every single letter

Is a precious gem

That can’t be replaced

By another’s writing.

So, why,

I ask the world

Do these stories fade like grains of sand in a dust storm?

See one, look at it, find the story’s soul

The beating heart of passion

And you will be devastated to know

That you very well

May never feel

The textured cover binding

And the book living within it

Right in your hands.

Writers seem to go through

 a hopeless process

Sometimes

Too many times

One novel falls into the trash 

The effort worthless

And another rises up

Only to be brought down

Noticed by no one

Besides the disappointed author

Who believed that would be the one.

So few stories are “the one” in publishers’ eyes, in the internet’s eyes,

In the eyes of all the humans on the planet. 

We live in a world where effort, passion, and really incredible, artful gems

Glass over our vision.

I don’t know how to change it.

I wish every story had some way

To ensure

That each word could be 

The key to an embedded gold mine

In unexplored, deep earth.

But, for now, there’s no point in stopping,

Giving up

The fire won’t die down so easily

Once the match has been lit

On the perfectly sized dry sticks.

And hopefully,

One day

However far that day is,

As long as it’s not never

The story

Your story 

Our story

Will be seen by someone

Anyone

And those special, impeccable words

Won’t be lost anymore.