From the fast-paced world of journalism
to the more dead than alive contributors
of the literary one,
she was constantly changing gears,
trying to balance these 2 different animals;
the latter she could put her whole self in,
the former, she had to learn to leave herself out.
Creative writing was in her blood,
journalism was in his bones.
When she donated a pint
& he donated some marrow,
they had gone beyond just
writing about life
to giving it back.
Her office was her day job’s breakroom,
her conference room.
Lunch hour was still an hour,
With her portable phone & computer,
she freelanced her way to another byline
for this junior reporter,
was a natural high.
Writers are like chemists–
the combination of words they choose
can either cause a person
(or group of like-minded persons)
to implode or explode–
& that’s before these readers even get
to the comments section.
Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 484
The Drive-By Media Whore
Constance Porter had coined Tunnelgate,
plus half a dozen others.
Con had never met a strawman she didn’t love
or a gotcha question left unasked,
for the exploitation of even the most useless information
feathered this goose’s nest egg
by getting people to care too much about things
that didn’t amount to a molehill of beans,
distracting them from the real, less interesting news.
Black, White, & Red Running All Over
When she became the Editor-in-Chief of the student newspaper,
she got the glory & everything that came with it—
the academic scholarship & the accusations of censorship,
the joy of a byline & the stresses of other people’s deadlines,
& the quandary of too many writers & not enough reporters.
But she learned to suppress her inner Captain Queeg,
though not her strong suit,
was a card she had learned to play.
No Voice But Her Own
Because she would not listen,
she did not learn.
Because she would not read what others had done,
she did not know how to do it.
Because she fancied herself a maverick a la Hemingway,
she could not see that she could become better.
Because she did not know the rules,
she did not know how or when to break them.
Because she wanted to tell her story,
she did not tell their stories.