Today on English Kills Review, Melissa Duclos tries to find an appropriate metaphor to describe her lost hope for her unpublished manuscript. She considers birth, death, and relationship metaphors. “I had a ten-year relationship with a book, but it didn’t work out,” she writes.
Yes, all good similes, but how about the PHOENIX? WHICH RISES FROM THE ASHES, REBORN, AFTER COMPLETE DESTRUCTION…
I apologize. I got carried away there.
At any rate, we modern writers need encouragement. The publishing landscape and the distracted readership that awaits us on the other side of the gilded portal whose plaque reads “Beware, All Ye Who Receive A Book Deal” have changed significantly since the era of our long-gone literary heroes.
I remember when I was a little cub, scrawling haikus on driftwood bark near the shores of Ozette Lake. To me, those poems represented the height of hubris. But now, dear reader, I have moved up in the world. I scribble chapters of my novel on toilette paper and glue them on my ghostwriter’s bathroom mirror. I don Ray-Ban Clubmasters as a disguise and wait for an agent like Daniel Lazar to leave the gym so I can sniff the seat of his stationary bike. All in the name of art!
But do not despair. One day, our neglected masterpieces will finally be exposed to the world. Hope springs eternal, like the sulferous gases of Old Faithful, the blowhole that made my old stomping grounds famous.
I will keep writing, just like that blowhole, and I hope you do too.
If this entry was encouraging to you, let me know. Or offer your own account of your travails – firstname.lastname@example.org
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