Self-Ashtualisation

   Gosh! I am so tempted to start this post with, ‘Duh. The end of the first half of my post,’ which, through this confession, I have. The ‘duh’ in question is none other than the (spoiler alert) first half of this post, as that part of the title, ‘Receiving My First Rejection on 1 Sep’ has suggested. To lengthen the short story, it was 8pm on 1 Sep in my part of the world when the email concerning my first submission to a literary agent arrived in my inbox. To my surprise, my often-dramatic heart did not palpitate. My palms did not itch and my stomach did not flutter either. Not sure how, but I was as stoic as, well, someone who was diametrically opposite to me. Calmly then, I opened the email to find my first ever rejection from a literary agent. Unfortunately they could not offer me a representation, they began. Due to the high volume of submissions, they could not provide specific feedback. However, they explained, it could just be that my novel did not match their personal prefe

To be a-mused by a muse Is no laughing matter As the aspiring-respiring-perspiring writer Is charged with the muse-ic, electric shock of dismissal When the muse gives up on its charge Or the writing/the charged decides to unplug herself From that guardian-angelic muse’s Delightful-painful Jolting electric slaps   But to be un-a-mused by a muse Is similarly grating, jarring ‘Electric shocks on your teeth’ sort of jarring Especially when the beginning novelist Plans to submit to the convulsive therapy Executed by the muse-turned psychiatrist Whose medication aims To make the writer spit the truth, Coat the spat truth on her fingertips And teleport it onto the doc-prescribed Word doc. .