Death of the writer

Death of the writer*

  “Oh! What freedom a writer has!

Arranging a family reunion,
A reconciliation between friends
Or making a raging battle
Never end
An arrogant king, a humble workman,
Helen of modern times –
All in his hand!”
 
I was reading that funny column when
Mark, my editor-in-charge gave me a ring
At 8:30 in the morning.  And he went:
“Your Madeleine must die
And she must be stabbed by Roger.
Don’t let her die of cancer.” 
I didn’t even ask why. 
“It won’t sell, a happy ending,” he went on,
“It’s out of season.” 

I rang off, recollecting my fair visitor last night:
Someone gradually seeped though,

A woman of medium height
In a blue frock
That gave a subtle glint in the dark,
A brunette, as I made her
And the natural curly hair
That flowed like an endless river.
Her face, pale as my note paper
And her eyes “displayed hesitancy”.
(I still remembered my own line).
“Please, dear writer, don’t make me die,”
She pleaded,
“Let me marry Jack, though I don’t mind
If you make me infertile.”
“You Madeleine?” I forgot if I had really asked. 
“Sam,” she went on, “ I don’t want to die.”
(Her tone getting a little threatening)
“You dare to make me die?” 
“Look!” My dear heroine said at last,
(Oh! How her eyes were thinning into a vicious line!)
“If you kill me, you’ll find me here
Every late evening
After your good book is published.” 

 

* This title has nothing to do with Roland Barthes's idea.  I just borrowed it to talk about a writer's predicament

By Tammy