October 19: "Envoy," Writing a Book, Bigfoot

It's a strange thing to spend months or years writing a book and then send it out into the world.  In a lot of ways, it's like raising a child, teaching the child to behave properly--how to live a true, authentic life--and then watching said child walk out the front door, as you hope for the best (friends, love, job, fulfillment).

Billy Collins releases some poems into the wild . . . 

Envoy

by: Billy Collins

Go, little book,
out of this house and into the world.

carriage made of paper rolling toward town
bearing a single passenger
beyond the reach of this jittery pen
and far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.

It is time to decamp,
put on a jacket and venture outside,
time to be regarded by other eyes,
bound to be held in foreign hands.

So off you go, infants of the brain,
with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:

stay out as late as you like,
don't bother to call or write,
and talk to as many strangers as you can.

I have no idea how successful my Bigfoot poems are going to be.  It's a book I would go out of my way to buy.  That's one of the reasons I wrote it--because I wanted to read a collection of poems about the big hairy guy.  It didn't exist, so I existed it.  

But not everybody is going to appreciate it.  I know that.  Collins knows that about his book, as well.  Of course, just like Collins, I hope my poems stay out late, don't call or write, and talk to as many strangers as they can.  That's what every writer hopes.

Of course, Bigfoot isn't really known to be all that social.  He might even be a little pissed at me for dragging him out into the open, as a matter of fact.  For such a long time, I gave him a place to hide--a cave filled with words.  I let friends and family only glimpse him sporadically, a flash of hairy ass and then nothing.  Just golden leaves in an autumn forest.

Bigfoot no longer lives rent-free with me.  He has to pull his own weight, so to speak.  And I am on the hunt for another obsession.  Disclaimer:  I have no interest in writing about the Loch Ness monster, yetis, ghosts, zombies, or serial killers.  

Maybe Saint Marty should write a collection of poems about a demented old man who wears makeup, has orange hair and an orange face, is a convicted felon, and runs for President of the United States.  Nope.  Nobody would believe it.