A Psalm for Writers
The boss is my writing; I shall not sleep.
It maketh me sit up nights with edits. It leadeth me beside commas.
It taketh my soul: it leadeth me down the path of prostitution for publishing's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of contests and conferences, I will fear no agent: for my editor art with me; her rod and her staff they beateth me.
She critiqueth my manuscript prior to the ponderence of mine readers: She anointeth my pencil with graphite; my chapters runneth over.
Surely rave reviews and fame shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the House of Random forever.