I wondered what would happen if a novelist tried to make her stories come alive in her own life…the result is this poem
Born with a natural inclination
To tell stories, mixing facts with imagination
From the time she could sentences write
Pen and paper made her jump in delight
Soon she started jotting down stories in long hand
Some simple, others too abstract to understand
If you met her, your peculiarities she would file away
In a nook of her brain, to be liberally used one fine day
When the tale she was weaving and your traits
Aligned together in a path straight
Everything she observed, nothing escaped her eye
She could not be fooled with the most convincing lie
Stories got longer, plots complicated
Fact merged with fantasy, as masterpieces she created
*
She wrote with a zeal quite difficult to find
Her novels and real life merged somewhere in her mind
While all novelists tend to derive inspiration
From real life, embellishing it with their imagination
She on the other hand, tried to orchestrate
Events in her life such that they would imitate
Well-defined endings of the novels penned by her
Much to the chagrin of those near and dear
*
In the twilight years of her life, she had achieved
Fame and popularity, much more than she could have believed
Life had been treating her well until the day she found
That she had the dreaded cancer, it was a blow profound
She kept this a secret, and wrote with a sense
Of urgency, about living with cancer through her lens
She knew her days were numbered and thus the hurry
To finish her last novel, she did constantly worry
That her exit from life would be quite sudden
Leaving her soul in a limbo, stuck in her pen
*
She ended her novel, words saturated with certitude
Bidding a final adieu to her readers, she sat in solitude
The final step in her life would be to organize
Her exit from this world, in a way that would surprise
Everyone, give people, besides her books, a reason
To remember her through many a season
She wanted to do this before she fell prey
To the vicissitudes of cancer one day
And needed to be drugged to control her pain
She planned her departure while she was still sane
*
Her book was released and the following day
Mimicking the end of her novel in every way
She was found to be dead, having ended her sojourn
On the earth herself, leaving hundreds to mourn
With a pen and paper beside her, the sheet pristine
What an extraordinary life it had been!
She wrote her novels and made them her guide
She was an open book- with nothing to hide.
Passion...unbridled 