Alone, she sat there in her study
All day, and well into the night.
Her thinking sometimes became muddy
But she had a story to write.
It’s been years since her father had told her
That she could spin tales really well
And she really should try to be bolder
For she had a story to tell.
So she moved from her dark little hovel
To a place that would give her more air,
More freedom to work on her novel;
Yes, she had a story to share.
Her motives weren’t all altruistic
She had to make money as well.
Her agent would soon go ballistic
If she had no story to sell.
That’s why, for those long hours, she toiled
Correcting, then writing again.
She worked like an engine well oiled
As she strove her story to pen.
But why would she do this? you wonder.
I asked her the same, she replied,
“What can I do but knuckle under,
When I have this story inside?”
I wrote this in response to Kreative Kue 132, issued on this site earlier. Feel free to join in; just follow the link.