Let writers bloom in their own wild time,
trust the untamed syllable, the wayward rhyme
and let each word a seedling be, seeking its own sun,
not forced through grids of what should be done.
The heavy hand that shapes too much will break
the tender shoots that…
wait.
What if they make
mistakes? What if the metaphor goes awry?
Or the line does not make sense?

Let it be so. Failure is the writer’s path.

Give space for stumbles, syntax gone astray,
for awkward passages and clichés grey, for
the workshop’s scalpel, sharp with good intent,
can slice the nerve that feeds authentic voice.

Better the messy draft that breathes and lives
than polished prose that never
forgives
itself
for daring to exist beyond the shelf
of rules that make safe writers never grow.

 

2/7/2025