What type are you?

T’was the fourth day of the new year and all is a flutter

I’ve decided on a new task to edit and de clutter

Type B lurks but I shoo it away

for I need Type A, in a bad way

My old plan required edit through osmosis

Now I must stop smelling the roses

The pace I once took was borderline criminal

For how does one revise just on subliminal?

The question I have on this fine day

Where art thou where art thou my buddy Type A

Oh, how I can’t wait for May when Chip MacGregor holds his next Worst Poetry contest. I didn’t win last year (see my entry here) but I’ve sharpened my skills remarkably, don’t you think?

So my friend and mentor Christian did this wonderful post about writer personality types along with a link to a personality test to see which type you are. He uses Monica and Phoebe from Friends in the writer’s workshop he teaches as perfect examples of Type A and Type B personalities. He declared me a Phoebe well before he knew what my test score would be—it’s that obvious.

The creative Phoebe in me writes the stories, but it when it comes to editing I have some real issues relating to self-discipline. I had jumped to the conclusion that I was experiencing profound wisdom by starring at the tree squirrels outside my window, as if they would somehow subliminally implant an editing hard drive into my brain. Then I would open up my WIP, and three pages in my eyes would glaze over. Squirrels are highly overrated. I would then decide to check my email, read agent blogs, go to other blogs and read and comment, all this I viewed as warming up. By then it was time for bed.

So instead of relying on outside sources to tackle what my right brain repels against, I must unearth what little Monica I do have and put her to use.

I urge you to visit Christian’s blog and take the test and leave him a comment about your results. Then hop on back here and tell me. If you don’t want to reveal to me your results that’s okay; I respect that. I’ll just return to his blog and see what you left there. I’m not that nosey anyway. FYI, I got a 38.

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Sore Loser

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,

Kent

Reading my novel was time well spent

Mabel, Ethel, Fran, and

Adolf

All are dead now they laughted their head off

Sleazing my book: stores and shows, when I sells one

Nobody knows.

 

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.

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