Writer, they whisper, you’re living a lie.
Which of your words will live on when you die?
Novelists write novels, scriptwriters write scripts
Poets… drink coffee, in roadside cafes.
You are do none of these things,
because you write what you know,
and you have known monotony.
You’ve plumbed the depths of your soul and found nothing there, as hard as you try you’ve no scars to lay bare.
Let’s look at your life,
What has this year left you?
A little older, none the wiser,
in fact pretty much the same.
You’ve so much surrendered as refused to play the game. You’ve won, lost, learnt nothing,
Risked, gambled, gained nothing,
Moved, proved, achieved, nothing,
Loved no one.
Writer, oh writer, come in from the cold
You won’t find fulfilment in courier bold, font size 11.
Real writers don’t type.
That’s why they’re called writers.
What can you teach us? Nothing.
You’re not qualified.
You haven’t seen the world, studied cause and effect, or discovered astonishing truths about sex.
But at least you’ve written. Oh how you’ve written. oh god, how you’ve written. How have you written?
Not often. When the mood takes you, when there’s nothing on TV.
Writer, we wonder, have you written today,
or have you stared at a screen and thrown life away?
You need a gift, for this and you haven’t got it,
but still you pretend,
and in the absence of repentance you pour out this stream of self-consciousness,
like a teenage Prufrock without the eloquence.
It takes experience to do this,
so go away and try harder, until you’re qualified to look the living in the face and say
I am a person.
Only then will we listen to your words.
Image source from Wikimedia Commons. Photographer: Dvortygirl.