I am one in a billion. I am a writer.
My voice is stifled behind a cacophony of pleas:
“Hear me! No, hear me! I have something to say!”
We all feel we deserve a piece of the publishing pie,
to be seen, read, heard, felt.
But we are victims of whims, notions, flippancy,
fair-weather audiences, sprees and fads.
You agonize over your space opera for a year,
Only to find out they aren’t hot anymore.
It’s now zombie-killing cowboys by day, drag queens by night.
What’s a writer to do?
Maybe you hope an understanding agent will see the merit in your past-its-prime story.
Maybe you trash it and start over, choosing a more classic theme.
A select few will be the one writing the first zombie cowboy, drag queen saga,
killing it on the bestseller lists.