As a child, a teen, adult, or crone
you’ve decided to give your daydreams a home
Each day you struggled, laughed, and cried
as your lyrical journey took you for a ride
Through heartache and joy, interweaving a story for your eyes alone
and then to share with friends, and family,
the ones who always throw you a bone
holding your breath, hands balled up tight, hoping and wishing with all of your might that they LOVE IT
and they do. So you think I’ve a bestseller… or two.
Then you spread your wings and find others like you.
Writing, revising, downing a cup or four. Trying to turn your draft into something much more.
You let go your chains, fears, and shakes
and share the words you held deep in your core
FINALLY you hear the words needed. The ones your family forgot to tell you.
Edits begin with a ravenous rush
for now is not the time to be a lush
a tweak here
Sprucing and pruning without care
Wait? My 200,000 word draft is too long? chop, snip 70,000 gone over night
yes, that will make it tight.
Kill who? Seriously you want him to go? But,
but I thought he was the star of the show.
and then it all makes sense.
This dream, this story came together again. Thanks you your new circle of writerly friends.
the moment came to set it free
And you write your first fucking query
That awful, soul-sucking, mind number page.
the one, you know, that fills you with rage
because no one said when you started your dream
that you’d be judge by 3 little paragraphs.
they forgot to mention you’ll end up growing scales of titanium before your done
did not connect
your voice? well it sucks
subjectively, of course
keep looking, bubye, sayonara my friend.
Adios, till next time, please, let’s not meet again.
you revise, resub, brush it off. Chug a bottle or two
secretly tell everyone off.
your crit friends hold your hand while you blubber and cry
One day, they’ll see, you say with a sigh
and they do
because you do not give up
you power through, dust yourself off and move the fuck on
you write a new manuscript, or two, or four
you go through the struggle again and again, knocking on their door
because you’re a writer.
you’re a fucking amazing, daydreaming, word-slinging, make-believing, world-building, murdering, fucking freak.
and those words you’ve written are fucking unique.
and you deserve to be heard.
so don’t give up.
because one day I’ll need you. One day i’ll pick you up. I’ll open your pages and you’ll take me away and you’ll break my heart over the course of the day.
I’ll cheer for your protagonist while creating ways to kill your antagonist. I’ll boo, hiss and cheer in all the right places
I’ll cringe in fear at your scary blood-mangled faces
I’ll try to pronounce each word of your world (and then secretly make up nicknames when I can’t)
But never once will I rant, because you’re story is still fucking awesome
without you, dear writer, our world can be gray. Full of dreaded real life. monotonous day by slogging damn day.
You are my rock, my soultrip, my escape.
carry on my friends, you unbelievable strong people. Please do not crack.
Forget the rejections, your words are not wack.
You’ve already won the moment you began
you created something from nothing and that deserves the ultimate hand.
and when your dear words finally come home
remember to cheer on another who’s still in the zone.
pick them up, raise their head and remind them it’s time
for their words to fly free, for they are sublime.
Dear perfect writer
It’s some hard fucking shit, yes it’s true.
never give up
if not for me, than… for you. ❤