Wednesday, February 6, 2013




So my first 15 minute meeting with a literary agent

Was supposed to help me get information as to what to do if

I ever thought I was ready to submit for publication.


She read some of my tweets, which I thought were funny,  and said

That I should try to target parents (did she not notice the fucking language?)

And that she really didn’t care how beautiful my children were…

(Bitch, that’s cause you haven’t seen them.)

She said that I lacked insight.

She didn’t read my poetry because she didn’t like the titles.

She said I should focus more on prose, but didn’t read any of the flash fiction I brought.


Wait, did she really say that I lacked insight?

Just by reading my tweets?

Did she not look at her shoes when she put them on?

One of us had on cute, leopard-print, ballerina flats, and the other one had on shoes that wished they looked as good as sensible shoes.

I won’t say which.

But I think you know who in that room lacked insight…

originally written 10/21/12

this poem us based on a sadly true story. no shoe deserves to be that hideous.  I think that the eight month writing block that has ensued was due to a pretty deep depression over that sad footwear. hopefully, i'm over it now. thanks for reading.



  1. Hey Heidi;

    I like how you spun this one. The banter illustrating the "not listening" is well played.

    1. Hi Delaina. Thanks for the input. This one was harder than I thought it would be.

  2. I can feel your pain... just got back from being brutalized in a fiction writing workshop last night. The comments were very useful, despite the pain of listening to them. Keep at it ;-)

    1. Thanks Frank! Workshops can be very rough. This poem evolved from an angry rant at my bathroom mirror. Maybe I'll write the rant down one day has the potential to be funny...once the tragic sadness of those shoes eases up some.


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