This is my story
I wrote it myself.
It’s that wonderful book
Right there on the shelf.
It took many months
Of plotting and typing
Fitting into a genre
Obsessing and griping.
I learned how to edit
And polish my prose
How to speed up a chapter
Whenever it slows.
I peopled my novel
With characters deep
And penned moving scenes
To make readers weep.
I wove thrills and spills
Through chapter and verse
Gave flaws to my heroes
Made dialogue terse.
I fought writer’s block,
Literary neurosis,
Despair and confusion,
And a touch of cirrhosis.
For nothing could stop me.
I would finish my book!
And then get it published
By hook or by crook.
Thus now I’m triumphant
And friends and folks cheer
They pop the champagne,
Whilst I shed a tear.
For now that it’s over
And my book is in print
I must find a few readers
Or I won’t make a mint.
For to keep at this game
Of being a writer
I must earn a few bucks
And wield words like a fighter
I must toil and perspire
O’er my keyboard and words
And must o’erlook
How this job’s for the birds.
For once my book’s finished
And it’s printed on paper
I feel lost and adrift.
I must write a new caper!
THE END
