On my way to school this afternoon, after a disheartening afternoon in my attempts to become a published writer, I thought to myself, best warn Iona not to become a writer.

One thought led to another, and I ended up humming the below re-write of Willie Nelson song…

Writers ain’t easy to love and they’re harder to marry
They’d rather slip you a poem than diamonds or cash
Endless good reasons and old faded flannels
And each night begins a new day.
If you don’t understand him, an’ he don’t die young,
He’ll prob’ly just slip away.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be writers.
Don’t let ’em pound MacBooks or ride them old bikes.
Let ’em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be writers.
‘Cos they’ll always be home, still they’re always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Writers like smokey old rooms, lonesome walks at dawn
Hot cups o’ tea and Google and porn in the night.
Them that don’t know her won’t like her and them that do,
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She ain’t weird, she’s just smart but her pride won’t let her,
Do things to make you think she’s got it right…

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be writers.
Don’t let ’em pound MacBooks or drive them old trucks.
Let ’em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be writers.
‘Cos they’ll always be home, still they’re always alone.
Even with someone they love….