(I wish I'd been drinking)
About all my novel-ish stuff.
It woke me this morning
(I should be in mourning!)
To tell me I'd written enough.
No, I wasn't done yet
But still my right mind-set
Was raring to go (so to speak)
It was getting dramatic
Climactic, fantastic
Exciting, the plot at its peak.
But left brain ain't swayed
By the twists that I'd made
It said, in a phrase, "This stuff sucks."
I asked it, "Which part?"
--Oh, the pain in my heart!--
And it said, with a sigh, "Here's the crux:
"The plot is pathetic
The tone apoplectic
Dude, haven't you witnessed the signs?
The prose is too wordy
And Thomas too nerdy
He passes out, like, eighteen times!
"Why don't you step back
Paint a bit, have a snack
Decide where you want this to go.
It'll wait for you here
I'll whisper in your ear
And you'll find your way soon, this I know."
My left brain had won
The damage was done
But I couldn't regret what I'd heard
I know with each letter
The prose will get better
And soon, I will have the last word.
Anyone feeling like your stuff sucks lately? Join the club! It's a bad, bad feeling, but it's also necessary. If you never get to the point where you think your stuff stinks, you can't fix it. Relish in your own suckiness, embrace it--and then fix it.
That's what I'm going to do (after a bit of painting and a snack). Happy writing!
