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A short rejection letter
Laid opened on the bed;
She wanted to write better,
But ‘twas getting worse, instead.
“SKETCHY PLOT—DISCONNECTED—
UNDERDEVELOPED THEME!”
Chastened and unrespected,
Her damaged self-esteem.
Frustration and confusion
Made mincemeat of her dreams.
Praying for a solution,
She muzzled pent-up screams.
“IT’S TOO LONG—IT’S TOO SHORT--
THERE IS NO HARMONY!
METAPHORS WITHOUT SUPPORT—
DISJOINTED SYMMETRY!”
Writing was her inborn gift,
She struggled to believe,
Letters forming to uplift,
Comforting those who grieve.
“THERE’S NOT ENOUGH DESCRIPTION—
YOUR RHYTHM IS VERY POOR;
YOUR DISORDERED TRANSITIONS
IMPOSSIBLE TO IGNORE!”
She took up her pen again,
Praying for God’s guidance;
After a hasty ‘Amen’,
She claimed poetic license.
(Writers have a gift from God
That others may not see.
It’s as if He gives His nod
Of blessing, pure and free.)
“SENTENCE STRUCTURE IS SLOPPY!”
“NO IMAGINATION!”
“YOUR PARAGRAPHS TOO CHOPPY
FOR CONSIDERATION!”
“I’ll show them a thing or two,”
She muttered as she wrote,
“A blended alphabet stew
They will finally quote.”
“YOU HAVE TALENT, WE CONCEDE,
BUT IT NEEDS MUCH GROOMING:
BUY OUR TOOLS AND YOU’LL SUCCEED,
A GRAND FUTURE LOOMING.”
She took required classes
And seminars galore;
Joined groups along with masses,
But her ‘gift’ was ignored.
“KEEP ON WRITING EVERY DAY—
EXPERIENCE IS KEY!
SEND US HAND-WRITTEN ESSAYS
WITH THE STANDARDIZED FEE.”
Every morning she awoke
To practice yet again;
Writing with pure masterstrokes
And trusty fountain pen.
“SENTENCE STRUCTURE TOO UNFORMED,
AND YOUR ENDING’S LACKING!
YOU MUST GO BEYOND YOUR NORM
IF YOU WANT OUR BACKING!”
Disappointed and rebuffed,
She packed her works away.
“Mayhap ‘diamonds in the rough’
Revered another day.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Forty years have come and gone,
The author long deceased.
Then a grandchild comes upon
Her journals--piece by piece.
Publishers are excited
To send her works to press;
Historians delighted
With her dated finesse.
Readers become avid fans,
Encouraged by her words.
Exchanging books hand to hand,
Her messages now heard.
God’s impeccable timing
For things coming to pass
Is a consummate rhyming
Of present with the past.
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