Self-Ashtualisation

   Hello everyone! How are you? Thank God it doesn’t rhyme this time around. Phew. My sentences have become too rhyming nowadays, so imagine my relief my friends, imagine my relief indeed! Gosh! All those daft rhythmic rubbish again! What to do? Well, I think writing this listicle’s what to do. As the self-explanatory title suggests, in this post I share eleven things you’d relate to if you’re both a prose and poetry writer like me, or to put it more simply, a confused writer. Nah just kidding. Anyway, let’s dive into that list!   1)     Most of the time, your poetry doesn’t rhyme and your prose does – especially when you don’t want it to. 2)     Your text messages read like song lyrics and although you’re not a songwriter – at least not formally – your song lyrics read like text messages. 3)     Procrastination will often try to charm you into writing a novel when you’re working on your poem and vice versa. 4)     Your poetry has too many plots and your prose none at all.

First read all the Facebook poetry memes to find out what you want your poem to mean deep down in the dumps of procrastination. Then start writing and before long digressing, because it’s nice to be wholly in touch with your holy avatar, the version of you yet to exist, maybe in a day, or in fact, right after you’ve got this poem about procrastination done and dusted.   Whilst you write, no, start writing, again, summon your ex-muse into your mind, bring the rage on, feel the raw anger and feel free to throw fireballs at her. After all she’s done, she’s not here to tame you into that copycat who is your mere self-parody in hindsight. Feeling too much? I know. Stop thinking of her then. Reprogramme your brain by procrastinating some more. This time pick three poetry collections about friendship breakups to read before you start to write your third line of your procrastination poem instead.   The next step is to philosophise about the validity of eve

   The day before yesterday, when I was working really hard to focus on drafting my covering letter to the second literary agent on my list, my obsessive thought tightened its grip on me, deftly chaining me to itself. It breathed down my neck, nagged at me to come on and just do what it wanted and glared me in the eye, all at the same time. Its chant for me to start acting on my dream to become a voice over artist sounded like an excited but deadly whisper, so still yet so loud – and before long the draft of that covering letter in front of me seemed entirely drowned out by the incessant mental noise. Indeed, I could not concentrate, at all, even though I did much, much, much more than try.    As I discussed in this post , that ghostly mental chatter was the same one that had made me regret my decision not to intern at a radio station, for years on end. As a highly sensitive person, I had never minded thoughts like it. In fact, we coexisted in a sense, since I’d learnt to accept al