An Almost Forgotten Poem
This was a tongue-in-check poem poking fun at myself and the writing process in general. It was not meant to be taken seriously. It was not written seriously. It is more than a bit off a rip off of the prompt, which was done on purpose. I wrote it back in my first semester of the Writer's Studio. Strangely, I never shared it, which I should have because it is a favorite and it's just fun.
Prompt: "Divorced Fathers and Pizza Crusts" by Mark Halliday. Read it here.
The connection between The Writer's Workshop and crying
is understandable. The writer strives to learn and write
confidently. She wants her piece to succeed.
The entire process is supposed to be rewarding. Writer's love
recognition. For some reason involving warmth and ego
writers approve of praise and accolades
years before they have any understanding of process or method.
So the writer sits down to create something beautiful, a masterpiece,
but ends up frustrated. The words hit the page faster than the writer can process.
Before the writer has had one thought, she has written thirty pages,
frustrated that her magnum opus cannot be shared with the class
the writer begins the editing process, but finds eight pages
that can't quite be cut down to size. There are darlings and descriptions left
to be cut and the writer doesn't want them killed,
there has been enough death already; she sits there
in her pajamas editing. It's good except the margins are way too big –
if they move just a bit that isn't a big deal –
so she moves them. Then proceeds to the next loaded page –
after the fifth page editing is basically a chore.
Finally there she is amid piles of drafts and tears.
All this is justifiable. There is no treachery afoot.
Meanwhile the piece starts to coalesce into coherence
which is the whole point. So the entire process makes
absolute sense. Now the frazzled writer gathers
her tear stained drafts for the trash and abandons them
and abandons the crumpled reams of old drafts which are not
murdered darlings on a sunken warship. Understandability
fills the bookshop. So thoroughly there's no room
for anything else. Now the other writers are reading her piece
and they follow, of course they do, she’s a writer.