When you think
that you’re finished,
that all the Ts are crossed
and the Is are dotted,
that every word is brilliant,
that the reader will be on the edge
of her seat from first page to last,
then you submit your work to your editor,
Who shows you
that you’re wrong.
You’ve been published in the Malahat Review?
Oh. That’s great. Congratulations.
You’ve been published in the Fiddlehead?
Oh. That’s great. Congratulations.
You’ve been published in the Queen’s Quarterly?
Oh. That’s great. Congratulations.
You’ve been published in the New Yorker?
Oh. That’s great. Congratulations.
You’ve been published in the Literary Review?
Oh. That’s great. Congratulations.
I wish I could say that.
Well, no I’ve never submitted to any of them.
Oh?
Wait.
I should because I could?
Oh.
.
.
Message of the moment. Frequently, the only difference between you and the people who’ve reached the success you aim for is effort and persistence.
and talent.
and luck.
😉
I really like what he has to say, and while I don’t tell stories on stage, I do write stories, and I do try to get kids to do the same, so I’m re-blogging this collection of tips. Besides, I want to be able to find this later. 🙂
Anew
you are printed,
packaged
addressed,
journeying to a distant place
unfolding before distant eyes
to be judged
and found worthy
or not.
In time,
you may find
a measure of fame
or fortune between
the pages of some book
but for now
you are just
another manuscript
off in the mail.
.
.
(Sending off a short story to a local ‘prestigious’ writing contest. The story was short listed a couple of months ago in a contest worth twice the prize money, so who knows? These things are so subjective.)
You came on evening light
uttered soft greetings,
“Tell my tale,” you whispered,
and so begins
another
adventure.
.
.
.
This weekend, as I was drifting off to sleep (see yesterday’s poem), I was introduced to Dustin who wanted to tell me the story of his life with Lydia. I had not intended to start a new novel (if that’s what this is) before finishing the projects already on my plate, but Dustin was pretty insistent. So, instead of doing what I planned today on my Sunday off, I lent my fingers to Dustin. I have no idea where this will lead, but it looks like it will be an interesting journey.
The poetry is loud tonight,
smashing and crashing through
synapses of my neocortex,
drowning the bovine bellows
of my bedmate.
Short stories are shouting.
Poetry is proclaiming itself.
Words are wailing.
They are insistent
in the seams between sleep,
and will not quieten
until I write them down.
.
.
(This is post 1717 on the blog. It was very loudly proclaiming itself when I tried to go to bed last night, and would not stop until I got out my little book kept beside the bed, turned on the little book light, and wrote down the essentials). Do you have this problem, too?
My words
want a place
up high, where they
can fly in on pieces of sky,
and settle into story.
My words
want a place
where the stripe of the highway
guides them here and away.
My words
want to sit in
molten sunbeams
simmering as ideas, waiting
to bubble into book life.
My words,
wish the window wasn’t
so far away, and the world
outside did not beckon
with so many responsibilities.
My words
want a place
where time stops,
where only they and I exist
and together, we mold worlds.
Today
Your Snow White beauty
Is cut with a sharp edge of
Street smarts.
You’ve seen
Too much.
Tomorrow
Will the visions
Scar your face with darkness,
Cigarette creases
And add black anger to your eyes,
Aging you with
Exponential bitterness?
Or will your words
Poured out upon a page
Erase the stresses
And sculpt your beauty
Into timelessness?
Here’s a Moxy Früvous performance for those spouses whose loved ones always have a nose between pages…
.
.
Shawn L. Bird 