I chose the name Vincent because it sounded proud and strong. As Vincent, the pen felt good in my hand: hard and poignant. As Vincent, I was super-poet.
My editor didn’t like the change, but I was selling more poems. I wrote fiercely, and my words formed fire-breathing dragons with impenetrable scales. I might have feared these dragons, but not Vincent; she was amused by the terror they evoked.
To temper Vincent I visited my editor late at night. He would read sonnets to me in soft, whispered syllables till tears dazzled my cheeks, and I lay in his arms thinking of poems about small yellow flowers I’d seen growing between cracks in the sidewalk.
In the morning I sat down to write a couplet for those yellow flowers, but I conjured my dragon instead. Consumed by the strength of my poem, I watched the dragon trample my flowers and terrorize the page. When it was over, Vincent signed her name at the bottom.
