Take Pity On An Author

An author is a lonely beast

Soliloquies are his diet

His only thrill, his wordy feast.

Glad when he is quiet.

 

He pains an agent thrice a year

His high-strung thoughts appal

She files it under ‘much too drear,’

Adds ‘reject,’ in her scrawl.

 

An editor soft as ripening fruit.

Takes pity on his style,

Thinks his lines a kinda cute.

‘Sure. You can blog awhile.’

 

His blogs are grim

His ideas bold.

She censures him

He feels her scold.

 

‘Keep it simple

Keep it plain.

Not so hymnal,

Don’t be a pain.

 

Take your time.

In such a flurry.’

‘Soon sixty nine,

Have to hurry.’

 

He does improve,

Tries poetry too.

Gets in a groove,

Lines cease to skew.

 

She reads an opus,

‘This is good.

The action’s copius

Publish we should!’

 

Some realigns

And a rewrite,

Some clearer signs.

‘The plot’s not shite.’

 

That dreaded day arrives,

Makes him to jelly.

Let’s hope his plot survives.

Shall we see it on the telly?

 

BUT

What of life after failure?

No problem to him.

Fun had, is his saviour.

Cool cats always grin.

 

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