I used to help people write self-help books. I may take it up again. I like their ordinariness, their lack of pretension.
Ode to the self-help book
I was a mess, toy box upended,
car wheels spinning as I slid toward
a fall. Rotten parents. Drinking problem.
I loved too much. I couldn’t love at all.
But you, you’d seen it, been there, had no
use for my pity pot, my gloom. “Buck up,”
you said. “I have a five-step plan.” Complex
life receded then, your acronyms
cut through my FOG of Fear, Obsession,
Guilt. I made a list, forgave myself, I
even took another bubble bath.
By the end, you said I’d be brand new— not
loser but the captain of my fate. Once
more you shared The Secret. I believed.
04/02/07
Comments