something

The Only Empty Place

Arriving late to a party
I had almost not been asked to
and being no longer young
almost had not joined
seated by hosts I barely knew
at their table’s only empty place
poured a red glass
passed a white plate
there was a moment when
the talking did not stop when
in some sourceless breeze
the candles did not blink when
no sudden thrill of portent
spidered up my spine when
nothing had happened or
felt about to happen when
the woman to my left
turned her face to me and
introduced herself as you

in that moment fifty years
reworked their puzzled order
every one now all along
had let me slant to you
and as I give you my name
another voice I had never heard
though it was my voice
sang to me small and clear
And this is what she looks like

— Richard Lehnert

If you can, it’s always better to stop writing. But if you can’t, and chances are you can’t or you would have stopped the day you got your first rejection, try to cherish the moments between the struggle, the times when your hand hurts and the pencil is so dull it’s squeaking against the paper but you continue to put down that which will not let you go. Hold on to the moments when, at the end of your shift at the grocery store, you find an old notebook and read your old words until the early hours, your name tag still in you other hand, your phone still unplugged. Never let go of when you realize that your mistake all this time was in failing to submit the contents of this particular notebook, forgetting all along that you did, in fact, submit them all once before. Hold on to moments of such forgetfulness, because they are what will save you. Someday, these will be the most beautiful of your times.

That book? It was the Literature equivalent of, like, deep fried ice cream or something. It’s IRRESPONSIBLE, y’know? I just don’t want to feel guilty about wanting to read it.

Sweet Valley Confidential is out. But this time, I won’t feel awkward about hiding it behind “Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry” ( which I honestly also loved, but I couldn’t reconcile my love for both books). Anyway, Sweet Valley High was where I went to dream of boys whose idea of pretty was so, so far from anything I would ever be, it was almost masochistic. But there was light everywhere, and I had a little bit of it.