Ode to an Overconfident Wordsmith

Sleep would not come,
Although it was night,
So I went to my keyboard
And started to write.

Who knows what possessed me?
It haven’t a clue,
But I banged out some words.
And my confidence grew.

“Hey, this is good!”
I said to myself
As I grabbed the thesaurus
I had on a shelf.

My characters lived.
My dialog sang.
I kept right on writing.
The telephone rang.

“This is your boss,
You’re late in for work.”
“I quit! I’m a writer.”
I hung up on the jerk.

And each day thereafter,
I followed my muse.
I dreamed of the movies rights,
Sales and reviews.

I’d have a bestseller.
This was not in doubt.
I just needed time,
But my money ran out.

Bill payers called me.
I took out a loan.
I bought frozen pizzas
Then shut off my phone.

Just a bit longer
And all would be well.
The best novel ever
Would be mine to sell.

Manuscript polished,
I sent it to all
Publishers, agents,
Both big and small.

This wouldn’t take long.
I could endure.
They’d recognize genius,
I knew this for sure.

I waited each day
As the postman came by,
Delivering bills
But still no reply.

Then, six months later,
A letter to me
Penned in my hand

Clutching at hope,
I noted the day,
Tore open the letter
And screamed out, “No way!”

This wasn’t the offer
I’d waited for
But a form letter reject.
The next week, four more.

What were they thinking?
How could they say “No?”
Didn’t they read it?
Didn’t they know?

They were turning down millions
They were turning down fame,
I thought, vainly searching
For others to blame.

Idiots! Morons!
Purveyors of pap!
Wouldn’t know a good book
If it jumped in their lap.

I needed to write.
I had things to say.
My stories were good.
They just didn’t pay.

Starving is something
I’d rather prevent.
Art should come first,
But I must pay the rent.

Gulping back pride,
I called my old job.
The boss hung up on me,
Ungrateful slob.

I searched everywhere
To find a position
To carry me through
To my next book submission.

I’ve got a new job now.
It comes with a hat.
I smile and I ask,
“Want fries with that?”

But when I go home
My muse has the stage,
Encouraging me
To write one more page.

And someday I know
That others will state
That the stories I’ve written
Are simply great.

But for now I am doing
The best that I might.
I pay all my bills.
In my free time, I write.

I’m a great writer.
I know you are, too,
But don’t quit your job.
You’ll regret if you do.

(This ode was also posted in conjunction with Rainy Day Rambling’s review of The Warden Threat at http://rainydayramblings.typepad.com/rainydayramblings/2012/05/guest-post-with-dl-morrese-giveaway-and-review-.html)

About Dave

A reader and writer of speculative fiction. See my website for more information on me and my writing. https://dlmorrese.wordpress.com/

Posted on May 12, 2012, in Writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. SimplifedStories

    That’s an awesome poem! I love it!

  1. Pingback: On Rejection « DL Morrese

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