I am a thirteen-year-old girl, and my parents hate me.
Boo-hoo! What shall I do?

Your parents think you are one big sulking pile of ****; and so do I.
But they also love every last bit of you (even the ****), more deeply than you can know; always have, always will.
Write to me again when you have discovered free verse.

I am a twenty-something new mother. I love this little stranger so much I could burst!
Help me find the words to tell every in and out, every fold and pulse of this tiny life.

Oh sweetie, does it never occur to you that this has all been done before, many times?
Would you like to examine volume seven of my vacation photo album? (Look -- here's another one of me, in front of the Eiffel Tower, eating an ice cream.)
No? So learn a lesson, sweetie -- live your love, don't write it.

I am a sixty-year-old male, past the best but not yet ready for the worst.
What does it all mean?

*My friend, here's a to-do list: observe, record, imagine, record, wonder, record. Revise, condense, select, re-shape, re-start. Repeat until sick; then beyond, as best you can.
It all means hard work.
But of course, you knew that, didn't you? After all, you are me.