A side note.
The horse story will resume another day.
For now, there is this.
I am a writer, though you may question that fact almost as much as I do. For I’m taken to believe that a writer without a publisher is not really a writer at all. Then what am I? Trying. Too hard at times. Willing to change my voice for the approval of others. Sing a song to please you, so to say. So tired of rejection and getting nowhere and being asked to be patient and trust when truth is it is my self I do not trust, my talents, my abilities.
However hurt and down this gets me, quiet, soft spoken and demure I will not be. I get mad. I suppose anger has its proper place. If not suppressed, it can be a call to action. Then how shall I act now? What shall I do?
In response to yet another rejection from a publication I’m not even impressed with, an editor who pointed me in the direction of work he personally liked and suggested I try to sound more like someone else, I wrote the following.
Tell me who I am
What to wear
The words to whisper in your ear
Does this dress become me
As I coyly dance before you
On my knees
Where you want me
Where I’ll never be
And then it is over
Last I looked you smugly smiled
And then you smiled no more
Now I hear only the evening wind
A familiar soothing sound
Wind chimes drowning out your banter
Cutting through your shallowness
Calling me closer to where I was
Before I ever tried