Writer’s Cramp


I look for a novel

Idea to find

Deep in my heart

And deep in my mind


A character appears

A new story-line

I spew forth his tale

I know it’s not mine


I’m a medium of sorts

A conjurer of words

That tells you his story

This novel of mine


Where do we go

I’ll take you he said

A journey to nowhere

With this man in my head


I’m losing my grip

My plot is not sound

How will I end this

What twist can be found


Just follow the voice

The man in my head

Then trip him and flip him

Don’t let him be fed


He’ll find a way out

Or else he’ll be dead

It’s his job to find it

It’s my job it’s said


So bleed on the keyboard

Put it all down

I’ll fix it later

This first draft of mine


His story’s complete

The story I wrote

So I relax and enjoy

This moment of note


Because now I must read

That first draft I wrote

And I will not like it

It’s full of word bloat


So I must turn

From killing my man

To killing my prose

Of the weak and the canned


I’m a slayer of adverbs

And the passive voice

To make it read lively

But not like James Joyce


It’s a helluva task

To remove what I wrote

Like throwing away

A favorite old coat


But I read it again

And I certainly note

It reads much better

Without the old bloat


But something is wrong

This new draft of mine

It lacks something special

It lacks flow and rhyme


So I re-write again

It’s a bloody damn crime

To read it once more

For the sixty-sixth time

I’m ready almost

To let it be read

From cover to cover

By eyes that aren’t mine


My God! What they say

Is it really that bad

No one will read this

I feel really sad


I pull it together

And get kind of mad

It’s time to re-write it

This novel of mine


But where is the voice

The man in my head

I need him to tell me

What else to be said


I drink and I smoke

And sink in my head

Looking to find

This novel of mine


The dog needs a walk

And garbage trucks grind

The gears in my head

Have rusted I find


The muse has escaped me

And the man in my head

Refuses to help me

I wish I were dead


What possessed me to write this

I may never know

But polish I must

To make the thing glow


He visits again

A night when it’s late

And no one’s around

So I finish his fate


And finished at last

No typo is left

It has  ISBN

And its cover’s a blast


Let luck take it somewhere

I hope it is read

By people who like it

My novel ain’t bad


Copyright 2015 by Andrew Hall

What the hell…now I’m writing poetry?

Where is this coming from?

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