Before I go into my rant I just want to say that I know rejection. If anyone knows rejection it’s a writer and a cat lover, of which I am both. Though I have sent only two queries yet so far, my first rejection is just a taste of what’s to come. I’ve entered contests and not won, which to me is a letdown akin to rejection. Such as Chip MacGregor’s most recent Worst Poetry Contest. I so had that one nailed that I had my acceptance speech already prepared and a space on my mantle dedicated to the future spot of my winning prize: The lava lamp. I know it’s not a Pulitzer Prize, but hey, just as groovy. Imagine my disappointment to see in today’s post that I was not a winner, nor a finalist. I didn’t even make the top ten—I think there were only eleven entries.
But worse than not winning was I displayed my true colors and had an online fit—such as the one I’m having now. I did not accept defeat gracefully. I demanded a re-read under less sober conditions, and preferably recited in the tune of a rap song. Here it is for those of you not yet exposed to my poetic talent.
(Author’s note: poetry typos were retained for optimum creative expression)
Horace, Benny, Eurkel,
Reading my novel was time well spent
Mabel, Ethel, Fran, and
All are dead now they laughted their head off
Sleazing my book: stores and shows, when I sells one
I know, it’s a travesty that I didn’t win, but I did have some pretty stiff competition. There’s so much talent out there it’s scary.
Update: Mr. MacGregor responded to my complaint: The judges have taken your request into account and have suggested a restraining order. Sorry, Tricia, while your work was bad, it didn’t reach the heights of badness needed to be badfully bad.
Well the nerve. I’ve never been so insulted in all my life. I’m going over there right now and rapping my poetry till I get that lava lamp.