Nine o'clock and all is ash
My story lost and wand'ring free--
Its theme, a fetid steaming hash
Its plot adrift on troubled seas
Adverbs, cloying, clog each verse
As I labor not "to be"
The problems, though, are getting worse
I struggle with passivity
Ten o'clock the rewrite slackens
All begins to spin and gyre
The problem prose abruptly blackens
As I set it all on fire
I take a break to shout and dance
To jump and yell, to jive and shake it
Hmm, the bonfire's warmed my pants
What the hell, I'll finish naked
By eleven I'm all right
Main character is fully new
Until I notice, to my fright
That this one's really clueless, too
I go outside, I take a break
Forgetting that I've still no threads
Good thing the cops are out of shape
I jiggle back, all flushed and red
Midnight comes and still I work
Knowing that the end is far
But then get tired and choose to shirk
I call it "done" and cut it thar.
Dreams abound within my head
Dreams of horror unsurpassed
Today's the day the story's read
I wish my dreams would last and last!
My hero, without motive, wilts
I fear to say they will anoint
Him cardboard, while of plots-on-stilts
I hear them asking, "WHAT'S THE POINT?!"
I fear not death. I face critique,
The seeing eye that never blinks.
I'm now a plushie-cuddling freak
For comfort as my stomach sinks.
They say their piece and I resolve
"I'll fix my ways! The past is sunk!"
Of my sins so I absolve
I'll not put out such tepid junk!
I am the captain of my prose
I am the master of my fate
Don't know how my story goes
Oh what the hell--I'll stay up late.
- J. Simon Jun 21 1999