She bores holes into my virtual eyes as she prods,
“What are you waiting for, a ‘sign-ier' sign?”
The esteemed New York Times Bestseller calls me to the carpet
Probes me to investigate my doubts, defy my hesitation.
“How many people have told you, ‘you need to write a book?’”
“Honor the assignment of your life!” She proclaims.
I'm off camera, unseen, yet she penetrates my soul
Speaking in the language of kismet, of higher calling.
But— my brain begins. I’ve never done the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.
I don’t have an MFA. I don’t have a published—
“DO NOT SHRINK YOURSELF!”
She counters, knowing all.
“You do NOT need ‘one more' credential!”
She takes me to church.
“Change the lives of those who come after you!”
"Your shyness is not humility, it's hoarding!"
I am caught up in her anthem, in her platinum crop,
Her ruby lip, those fourth-wall-obliterating irises.
“Greatness comes when you choose to
'Do It Scared.'”
I glance behind me, at my book stand
Where her books hang prominently on my floating shelves.
“Do not ignore your assignment!”
The workshop runs hours over; then whoosh, done.
Could I do this? I wonder.
I don pajamas, drift asleep in a trance.
This morning, alarm blares, I rise; catch my frame in the mirror
Still wearing a string of pearls - not a metaphor.
I put hand to necklace, find my own eyes.
Absurdly regal - flannel and flair - worth sharing, with someone.
Is this the sign? The signiest sign?
Okay, Luvvie, let’s do this.
