I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

Recently I stopped myself mid-sittance when talking to a fellow poet.

For being asked, what was I writing these days?

They listened expectantly while I discussed my prospective collection of essays, waiting

for me to continue, then said, are you going to finish?

I answered half apologetically, I've become superstitious about sharing my ideas before

completing them.

Once I narrated the full sketch of the book, I was happy that I did so because their suggestions

rooted deep into the project.

Why my hesitance?

Some years ago, I went around telling everyone, I mean everyone, even my dentist, mouthful

of tools, my idea for romantic comedy involving uninvited guests at a series of weddings.

And several friends texted to congratulate me on seeing my imagined screenplay on the

big screen.

I immediately purchased a ticket, then sat in a dark theater full of annoyance at its brilliance,

but also paranoid that my idea was stolen, even though I had no such evidence other than

the flickering images before me.

One, several years later, one of the people to whom I had devolved wrote a bestselling book

on the topic of weddings.

I suppose I've known the lesson of keeping your cards close to your chest since I was a kid.

Father Dave Hagen, my basketball coach at St. Elizabeth's elementary school, scolded

me about telegraphing my passes during games, which always resulted in the ball being stolen

...