Let’s say you’re a writer or poet. Let’s say you come across an amazing book of poetry. Let’s say it’s from A Midsummer Night’s Press, and it’s called Mute. Let’s say it’s by a fantastic writer named Raymond Luczak. Let’s say you carry it around with you for weeks, memorizing lines of his poetry like, Do not worry whether you should/continue buying CDs or downloading music/or listen to the radio in the morning./Your ears and voice are a gift/as much as his eyes and hands are from “How To Fall for a Deaf Man.”

Let’s say the poems remind you of people you weren’t brave enough to befriend and of shadows and angels in your own past. Let’s say the poems make you hear your heart in a different way. Let’s say the poems make you want to be a better poet yourself. Let’s say that when you read Mute, you said out loud, “This is an example of how a collection of poetry should be done.”

And then let’s say you get an email a few months later. It seems Mr. Luczak has purchased your own book and has written you to say:

I lay out in the shade on my towel in Lowry Park while my dog nibbled at clovers.  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but whoa.  This is one of the very best debut collections I’ve seen in a long, long time.  I mean this seriously.  It isn’t just another collection in which poems are shoehorned to fit a certain theme; they flow together organically. As a recovering Catholic, I appreciate your mixing spirituality with sexuality.  It’s always a potent mix, and it works beautifully here.  You have every right to be proud of the book.

Let’s say that you do backflips in your home. Let’s say that you immediately show your husband the email. Let’s say that you call your mother and read it to her. Let’s say that you forward the email to a few of your friends. Let’s say that you can’t even sleep that night because a hero, a person whose writing you admire so much it hurts, has complimented you on your own work.

Let’s say that you don’t know how to say thank you, but you’re damn sure gonna try.