O what can ail you, writer there,
so well-rested yet so woebegone?
Three weeks have passed with all your care.
You’ve had your chance to sing your song.
O what can ail you, writer for the ages,
most well-fed and pampered fellow?
Did you write three hundred pages
self-satisfied and mellow?
No, though I had my chance to write
and labored at my desk for days.
And so…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Emily Writes Back to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.