I am the author.

I am words’ bitch.

I might huff and puff and show them brawny bravado, but they remain aloof and unmoved.

I may stroke and pet them and softly croon into their kernings, but they turn a deaf ear like an obstinate lover in a bitter quarrel.

I might suffer under the delusion that I can throw my lasso around them and force them towards one way or the other, even down into the gritty dirt, but I may as well be tossing a spider that’s trailing a single strand of web shiny and barely visible among the dust mites in a ray of sunshine.

I may rage at them, my temper rising and falling with the guttural strain of my voice, but they stare back at me defiantly, unimpressed by my powerless fists-flailing in the air.

I might line up the plans for my stories in single file, but I am at words’ mercy; they alone decide whether they will flow like water over a fall or stand stubborn in a stagnant pool of stink.

I may set aside hours for them to line themselves up on my page, but they will come when they’re damned good and ready, blind to the hands sweeping the clock.

I might deftly plan my strategy to force their march across the lined paper, yelling them into order like a drill sergeant, but they huddle and snicker at the way my spit reflects in the sunshine as my ineffectual wails echo across the unexcited atmosphere.

I may preen and posture, pretending they’re not there, but they sneer at my pretentiousness, fully realizing I am merely putting on airs and graces, effectual as a cat raising its hackles at its reflection in the water.

I might calmly bid them about, subtly calling them into order, but if I am lucky and the stars align and the moon shines down at a precise angle, they may eventually arrange themselves into an aesthetically pleasing array of lovely lines across the field, like a month old crop of fresh vegetation covered by a light fog glowing under shy dawn sunshine.

I am words’ bitch.

I am the author.