Dear Future Publisher,
Sometimes I run out of words.
At first, they spill out of me, tripping over each other to get out, coming in a flood, a stream, a geyser, pooling on the paper like water, like blood.
And then they drip, one after another, slow, clinging bulging like pearls to my fingertips, afraid to fall.
And then they halt, and need to be wrung out of my sere and parched soul, squeezed out like a sponge for every last drop, and I search for the cactus hiding in the desert, for the hidden oasis that might give a dribble of liquid more, a single word, a phrase.
And then they cease, drying up in front of my eyes, leaving me bereft.
Leaving me silent.
Out of words.
And I pause – I pause until the silence ceases, and the whirling rush of words returns, ready to flood forward, ready to flow.
These words, these words that dripped from my mind, trailed down my arms, leaving tracks like tears on my flesh, these words that dropped from my fingers and landed as ink on the page – these words, that I wrote and now you read, like a reflection in a still pool of water, like a reflection of me, these words right here, these very words – these are for you.