People tell me that what I do
is scarier than a job interview
or public speaking.
It's more frightening than singing karaoke in front of 15 Julliard students.
It's more terror-inducing than a claustrophobic getting into an elevator with a 360-pound football player who presses the button for the 46th floor.
It's worse than breaking your mother's favorite wine-glass and facing her with the shards when she comes home.
And maybe people are right;
maybe what I do is brave.
the interviewer will shake your hand and you will get up out of that cushioned swivel-chair and leave the office;
and after your speech, the crowd will applaud, and you will step away from the podium and off of the stage;
and you will never see those Julliard students again once the bar doors close behind you;
and at the 46th floor, the metal will slide open and you will be not be stuck;
and your mother will still love you.
But what I do has no end.
It is a simple task, yet an unceasing one.
I am a copyist.
All I do
is take what is written on my heart
and copy it onto my lips.
My heart is an author.
It keeps on writing.
All I do is copy its work.
And all I get are those broken shards of glass slicing up and down my insides.
And the author keeps on writing.