The Paths We Choose

The Paths We Choose by Edmund Siejka When I was a young writer I read all the greats Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Yeats, James Joyce And so on I could write like them I said So I felt good about myself And wrote a play In the heat of August, 1976. Beating the lines on an old portable typewriter, Rubber mat placed under its steel frame, To keep from annoying the neighbors But the walls in the East Village were thin And next door guessed What are you doing writing a novel? She asked I kept typing And the rejections piled up It was then I realized that I was attempting the near impossible So I stopped. Something came over me I started writing again in 1992 Two unpublished novels And inevitably The mailman would trudge up the front steps Lips pursed in a tight, thin line Rejections coming in like a winter storm I poured over each one trying to decipher their true meaning But it was no use. I wrote a poem in 2009 To my surprise it was accepted Followed by an email from the editor Requesting more of my “stuff”. Someone recommended that I give a reading At a local library Start small they advised. And so I found myself In a crowded room of poets and strangers When my name was finally called I approached the podium Determined and focused. After reading my piece I searched The audience for their reaction Waiting for the other shoe to drop.