“Some poets are lucky,” he said. “And
others simply aren’t.
Remember, as long as we talk
about the publishing
it’s all about luck.
Like, yeah, go ahead and name
one, just one industry
that is more subjective, or just
as subjective as
the publishing industry. I bet
“Um, fashion industry?” I said
“Fashion bullshit,” he said.
“You’re not even close. Had you any
knowledge you’d know
the fashion industry is actually
not subjective at all. You just
gotta look skinny as a patient
who went through their
36th appointment for chemotherapy and
you’re good. You’ve made it
in the industry. Beauty is not
even a requirement. You just gotta be
skinny as fuck
and with plain features. Kinda like a
hanger that people
hang clothes on. Nothing more.
A well dressed scarecrow
can make it in the fashion industry.”
He turned to the side
and spat. “But the publishing industry,
now that’s where real
and ultimate subjectivity is found.”
He sighed. “Uh, man, I’m glad
I made it.”
“Made it?” I said. “How the hell
did you make it? You haven’t
published a word. None that
I know of.”
He burst into a sound laugh. “No, you
fool! I mean, I’m glad I made
it out. See one day, I mustered up
the courage and
came out to my parents. I said, mother,
father, I aim to be a writer.
That was the day that turned
my life around. The day I came out.
My parents, God bless ‘em, put me
through therapy. And now
I’m a sane person again. I no longer
harbor dreams of
becoming a writer or poet or whatever.
The therapist explained
to me that
there was a trauma in my past
that pushed me towards creative writing.
It’s the case with every writer/poet/whatever.
And we worked together for
many weeks and
that trauma is finally healed. I no
longer want to write. I got
a normal job
and live my life as a productive,
respectable member of
society. Thank God!”
“Shit,” I said. “And what
was the trauma that pushed you
towards creative writing?”
He paused for
a few seconds. “Um, my therapist
told me not to
share this with anyone
who still hasn’t come out yet. It
might damage them
even further. And influence
them to write about it.”
“Shit,” I said. “Your therapist
I was glad for him. And at the
a bit envious. I was still
looking forward to the
when I’ll muster enough confidence
to come out as a writer
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a profession.
We would love to read your work. Interested? Please READ our SUBMISSION GUIDELINES.