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DAY 44: Getting critiqued on a poetry website

14 Oct

I'm not saying I'm like Dorothy Parker; I'm saying I like her lamp.

I WONDER what it’s like having people critique your lyrics. I bet it’s not very nice, is it? I vow to set myself up for a taste of that medicine by sending my own poetic meanderings to a messageboard dedicated to verse and feedback.

I decide to submit ‘Firewater’ and ‘Taillights’ (with apologies to Buffalo Tom’s ‘Taillights Fade’), two songs I wrote in my early twenties. It’s tragic the other poets won’t be able to hear the heartrending melodies, but what can you do?

At first I register under what I reckon what would be a suitably ‘poetic’ name, Remorticia. Then I tell myself not to be such a fucking arse and change it to my actual name. I mean, choosing the former’s like reading someone’s horoscope out in a mystical voice and waving your fingers around, isn’t it? Just don’t do it.

Now, where to post. ‘The Sadness’ is a thread of “heartache, lost loves, suffering and pain. (Please post poems about suicide and death in The Tragedy)”. So ‘Firewater’ can go there.

‘The Tragedy’ is “downfalls, sorrowful conclusions, death, misfortunes and world tragedies”. So we’ll send ‘Taillights’ there.

“Very smoothe write I loved reading it. You are a great writer :)” is the first comment under ‘Firewater’. So evidently even if English isn’t your first language, my words resonate powerfully.

“Deeply written, great job,” comes another, temporarily satisfying my constant need for approval.

‘Taillights’, meanwhile, isn’t faring so well. “You know, if I over-thought things,” begins one critic with 8142 comments under her belt on a poetry forum, “mneh mneh mneh mneh.” Or words to that effect.

I can’t resist a snarky comeback, then immediately realise I may have taken it the wrong way. And at least she hasn’t given me 2.5 stars and a patronising slap on the arse in a national magazine.

Keeper? Might be a useful exercise in avoiding passive aggressive outbursts.

DAY 34: Watching Foxtel at Fed Square with a free cheese toastie

4 Oct

BIT of a rush today… but not too much of a rush to stop at the Coon promotional stall for a cheese toastie and sit and watch Foxtel on the big screen.

Nothing like a bit of home in the city (thankfully there are no Bolivian nose flutes or Holden promotions to spoil the view). I normally grimace politely and continue forth like an interstate truck when I have food thrust at me in the street, but seriously – what am I worried about? What we have here is a big slice of buttery, cheesy manna from heaven, and no one makes any attempt to engage me in conversation or ask me if I’m a friend of Jesus.

Who’s got the remote? Surely Two and a Half Men is on?

Keeper? Sure! I’m not a fan of free cereal though, for future reference.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN: Making a last will and testament

27 Sep

FOR the bargain price of $24.95 I download will stuff from a website that mutters into its fist that it is “not a legal practice and nothing in the documents provided constitutes legal advice”.  Which must be true, because surely lawyers can afford proofreaders? I am obliged to go through the official looking bumf with a red crayon, correcting things.

Keeper? Yep. It’s under my bed.

DAY THIRTEEN: Becoming an organ donor

13 Sep

I REGISTERED to donate my bits and pieces, here

Keeper? Until I die. Then you can stake your claim.

DAY TWO: Ending every email with a compliment

2 Sep

WHAT a fraud. What a skulking, low-down dirty snake. To feign positivity to a string of unsuspecting stooges when merely feeling ambivalent. Still, here goes.

I decide to channel my friend Jenni, who is always relentlessly upbeat in the face of adrenal fatigue and a declining ad sales market, and manages it with good humour and pizazz. My usual bedside manner swings from terse editor mode – I’m very busy, you know – to infuriatingly vague though, so unsurprisingly some people are alarmed.

“Words, baby, words,” thunders publicist Stacey, who’s onto me. “Mean nuttin without the honest intention, which you don’t have. You will just sound like a publicist.” She’s got a point. Coming from me, a cheerful reference to someone’s attributes sounds vaguely threatening (“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,” Zan observes). In the case of those I barely know, I find myself resorting to a deranged: “You’re tops!”, which I’m sure they are.

This experiment does have its practical advantages. For example, the time I slapped on my out-of-office with the message “It’s deadline. The answer’s no”, I wound up inviting a whole steaming heap of bad karma to my door, whereas today I’m getting smiley emoticons back tenfold. It’s like one of those chain letter scams where you send off ten pairs of new undies to ten people and get ten thousand back.

Those who ignore my courteous comments, however…? Noted.

Keeper? Sporadically. If they deserve it.

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