Choice

Originally posted on May 25, 2009 at 12:44 AM

I often hear famous authors say things like, “If you don’t absolutely have to write to survive, don’t become a writer as a profession. It’s too hard.” Or, “Writing isn’t an option for me; it’s a necessity.” *clears throat* I call bullshit.

I can think of only two reasons that a successful author might say this to novices desiring to achieve publication, success, fame, etc. 1) They want to scare off as many people as possible to avoid extra competition in an already devastatingly competitive field. Or, 2) They are fooling themselves into actually believe it.

I think the members of option 1 are sneaky buggers with low self-esteem. And of option, 2, they are probably the same people who describe relationships in this way: “We just knew that we had to be together forever; there wasn’t really a choice.” We’ve all heard people say things like that. And to be honest (because someone must), it’s just not true. Every day we must wake up and reaffirm our commitments, our dreams, our identities. Because it all can change, no matter how strong the passion, how sure the desire, how tender the love. Life is unstable, and to keep a common factor throughout, one must choose to make room for that factor in every changing stage of life. In love and writing, it’s a choice.

I understand where some of those people are coming from, I think. Something along the lines of: writing is who I am, not just what I do. I think I would say that, too. But to say that you had no other choice is to mislead—to exaggerate. We all have options. I would have made a great evolutionary biologist, a good waitress, and a fabulous interior designer, for starts. But that’s not what I ultimately decided. I’ve decided that I want to be a writer. So every day, I reaffirm that commitment to myself. I reevaluate my goals and dreams and find them sound. I struggle with the pull between my career dreams and my personal life. Some days writing wins and I get good work done; some days it loses and other things come first. But overall, I am holding up my commitment and striving to achieve my goals… because I choose to.

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Approaching June

‎Originally posted on Thursday, ‎June ‎16, ‎2011, ‏‎2:50:00 AM

This poem was first published in the Texas Poetry Calendar 2011 by Dos Gatos Press.

Approaching June
in loving memory of Ron Neugebauer,
April 17, 1955- June 18, 2008

Summer was picking dewberries
in the hot Texas sun,
fingers dyed purple from sampling;
we couldn’t wait to get home
and eat them in a bowl with cream.

Summer was the gangly limbs
of young teens squealing
and flirting in the back yard
swimming pool, relishing
the blissfully boisterous blue.

Summer was the sweet smell
of honeysuckle wafting
through the near-still heat,
rocking in a hammock,
drinking bottled root beer.

Summer was escaping the
humidity in the soft, safe hush
of the recliner by the window,
avidly reading a book
while the cats napped on the porch.

Summer was a white gate,
now tainted with the loss of you—
the bright fence painted
in a wash of gray—
and it will never be the same.

© Annie Neugebauer Tilton. All rights reserved.

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Missing Pieces

‎Originally posted on Friday, ‎May ‎13, ‎2011, ‏‎11:10:00 AM

This poem won the Popular Prize in July of 2010 through the Poetry Society of Texas. It was first published in Collections I, an anthology of the 2011 Merging Visions Exhibit. [Note: This poem has also been read by narrator Xe Sands. Click here to listen to the audio recording.]

Missing Pieces

When I was growing up,
you were always whole unto yourself,
just Dad,
complete because you were alive
and I could observe you in front of me:
hear you, touch you,
and see that there were no pieces missing.

But now you’re scattered
as surely as your ashes,
and I am left a collector of you—
a puzzle maker—
trying to gather and fit together
the pieces of who you were.

Years after moving away, I am still unpacking
boxes that hide secret remnants of you,
and I can’t let go,
for the memories I’ve written
are grown old, and stagnant poems
are not enough
to make you whole again.

© Annie Neugebauer Tilton. All rights reserved.

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To Walk Again

Originally posted on May 2, 2011 at 12:24 PM

To Walk Again

I remember when I died.
It wasn’t romantic, horrific,
or even interesting:
it was the flu, untreated,
left to fester and spread
to my already weak lungs.

I remember when I was born
for the second time.
Like a creature from King,
I crawled, gnarled, and gnashed
my way from the earth’s
cold, mildewy embrace.

I remember when I lived
as the walking dead.
An unmerciful hunger
tore at my gut and forced me
to seek the satiation of warm,
purifying, human flesh.

Oh, I remember when I lived.

© Annie Neugebauer Tilton. All rights reserved.

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Scarcely Caged

Originally posted on April 20, 2011

Scarcely Caged

My mind is dreaming now about my date
ahead and puzzling where I might have parked,
and grateful that the store was open late,
I walk without a thought into the dark.
It isn’t till my car is feet away
that I look up and see the man inside.
His shadowed face, to me, seems to convey
evil intent; I’m frozen in mid-stride.
Just sitting in the driver’s seat, he grins;
I, fumbling for my car remote, press lock,
but long thin fingers pull it up again,
so while I thumb it down I start to walk
away. He’s caught, but mouths from in my car:
“The key remote can only reach so far.”

© Annie Neugebauer. All rights reserved.

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