‘Twas the night before publication,
When all through the house.
Not a creature was stirring,
Except my computer mouse.
My spouse was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of royalties danced in his head.
And me nodding off at my computer so late,
Desperate to give my blog an update.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
Tore open the curtains and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the garden below,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects, ya’ know.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But the ghost of Ray Bradbury, purposeful and clear.
He strode boldly toward me as though on a mission.
His purpose was clear; rein in my ambition.
Seconds later, in my humble office, he stood.
His bushy brows furrowed, his expression not good.
I had written a book, a modest tale,
Which I promoted fanatically, desperate for sales.
Ray came to tell me this promotion must cease.
Focus on the craft, not on the release.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He finished this blog entry, then turned with a jerk,
And giving a nod, out the front door he strode.
No fear of policemen upon this dark road.
He walked away, whistling, a spectre of the night,
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere leaving my sight,
“Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.”
And these words began my publishing day.