The Secret Delusions of an Aspiring Poet
Monday 22nd September 2014
Mother woke me up at 7am to remind me to clean my room, take out the bins and apply for some job she noticed in the paper. The job is spreading butter on rolls in Gala (they said a deli-manager, but I read between the lines).
This is not the time. Barry, who Mother refers to as THAT RUDERLESS MUSICIAN, just broke my heart. I spent the weekend slugging bottles of wine as part of the grieving process.
When Mother returned from her meaningless day job, she asked about applying for Gala. I asked her did I look like a deli-manager. She rolled her eyes and told me to cop myself on- because it’s a recession. Which I tried to explain means it’s socially acceptable to live at home at twenty-four and pursue the dream.
She wasn’t listening though. I’m going to Google famous writers, whose parents tried to force them into dead-end jobs and stifle their dreams, and then I’ll print it and stick it to the fridge.
Tuesday 23rd September 2014
Submissions made: none
Words written: 10 (but they were powerful)
I read some extracts from Sylvia Plath’s diary online- she bit Ted Hughes on the cheek when she met him. The most exciting thing I’ve ever done at a party is say hello to some girl I thought I recognised from some writing thing. Turned out it wasn’t her and now I look at the floor when I think I recognise people and wait for them to approach me.
Wednesday 24th September 2014
The Gala people called. Mother must have dropped down my CV yesterday. I told them I was not quite ready to have my dreams crushed by globs of mayonnaise and spooning wedges at people.
My brother was listening and said “you sound like a stuck-up arse”. I told him he couldn’t possibly understand the plight of a poet and penned a verse in which I was a wilting lettuce. I printed it out and stuck it to his door. I doubt he’ll get it, so I also sent it to the Irish Times. It was that good.
Thursday 25th September 2014
Number of rejections: 5 (they’ll be sorry)
Advice from editor of small literary paper: “Make sure to edit all submissions” – um, that’s your job EDITOR.
I cleaned the house, including the cat’s litter tray. I spent the rest of the day being stalked by the cat.
Mother had the audacity to ask what I did all day. My brother said “she moped”. He’s 22 – should he not move out and get a girlfriend. It’s not like he has a literary career to nurse, he could get a job and not waste away his life on an Xbox.
Friday 26th September 2014
Barry sent an email today about how wrong he was to break up with me. He said he’d written a song to explain his inner turmoil. He sent over a muffled recording and I could hear something about “him being so sorry, I was more than a lorry….” This was disturbing as I had him pegged as an intellectual. It shows you never do know someone, even if it was two of the most intense weeks of my life.
I told him I couldn’t possibly be seen to be swayed by a bad rhyming scheme and he emailed back that is was a parody of a love song. So there we go, he was an intellectual all along.
He said he’s got a gig tonight. I’ll get the girls to come – if they can take time from their pointless lives working in retail. Mother’s always going on about how Laura’s a good responsible girl, but she doesn’t know that Laura had two STDs this year alone.
Saturday 27th September 2014
I think I hooked up with Barry by a dustbin. I don’t approve of abbreviations, but FML. Drank ALL the wine. So hung-over. Someone make Mother stop hoovering the carpet. It’s 11am on a Saturday.
Sunday 28th September 2014
Words written: 56 on a napkin in a coffee shop in town. It rained on my cycle home and it got soggy. I’ve no idea what was written on there.
Barry sent some text about not wanting anything serious, as did the Irish Times. There’s a poem in it somewhere.
There’s some literary reading on tonight in the Irish Writer’s Centre. The facebook page said there’ll be free wine. So it won’t be an utter waste of my time. Mother doesn’t understand why I keep wasting money on the bus fare – I wouldn’t expect her to, it’s not like you need to be good at networking to work in the bank.
