I'm the boss of you, and don't tell me I'm not. You come to me, for me to be the boss of you. You're a reader. You search for authority, for that voice that can sweep you off your feet, swallow you whole, make you raise your head from the book, hours later, wondering what hit you. You look for it, in every book. You open it, you hope for it. It's why you read. And here I am, a writer. I'm at your mercy. You can toss my book into a swamp, you can use it as a door stopper. You can burn it. Worst of all, you can open it, glance at a sentence or two, and never read it.

You have authority over me.

Yet I have authority over you.

That is, if I have it. If I do, I will catch you with my net. I won't let you go until you're exhausted, until your eyes hurt and you start sticking matches between your eyelids to keep them open. You will walk with my book into traffic. Cars will stop inches from you, honk at you, you won't hear. You will tumble into open manholes and continue reading. My words are just your palate. My sentences your relish. My stories your tin of canned sardines because you loved canned sardines since you were five. You are under my authority.