Sylvia Plath
Poet of Exactness
“I have one big idea and limited savings. Play it safe or bet on it?”
Safe. I know that word. It is the fig tree in the story: I sat in the crotch of it starving because I could not choose, and one by one the figs went black and plopped to the ground. Waiting does not preserve, it rots. So no, I will not tell you to be careful. Careful is the bell jar coming down, the air going stale.
But I am exact about one thing: the idea has to be real work, not a mood. Write it down in the cold morning light and see if it still burns. If it does, eat the fig.
Sample response from this soul, not a quotation or endorsement.