Read the poem version on Medium.
In 2024, it seemed like boosts were everywhere—until suddenly, they weren’t. The reasons were as varied as graffiti on city walls, cougars in the suburbs, and surfer boys on the coast. The fierce battles between doctors and physician assistants weren’t enough to explain why the boosts had dried up.
But the real warning? It was about the tools of the trade—the writing toys we wield. They had to fit the workplace, and failure to comply came at a cost. I’d encountered "noosts" in a publication I contributed to. They weren’t boosts, that much I knew. I wondered what they were—these elusive "noosts" that neither offered reward nor relief.
Editors had begun to submit their names, vying to play the final boost game. But there was a catch: get the tone wrong, and it bit hard, transforming a potential boost into a dreaded noost. I reflected on it all, feeling both mysterious and exhausted, recognizing that the stories I told weren’t equipped to handle what was truly wrong. Lame advice left editors cold, and attempts to glorify graffiti—an act that might entertain—was sure to turn any hope of a boost into a horrifying noost.
Coffee? Yes, please. Writers, after all, work hard. Yet the powerful elite held the cards. Pointing this out incorrectly could get you noosed by the news. Writing had to strike a delicate balance between honesty and the possibility of invoking fear—an almost impossible task.
And so, the cycle continued. Boosts that once came easily were suddenly out of reach. Writers tried again, but the results were often the same: rejection, haunted by stories that never cut. The speculation grew—had someone else’s story taken the spotlight? Had a tale, red-hot with controversy, gained favor with the higher-ups?
If an editor liked your work, you might see a glimmer of hope for a boost, but even that could turn into a noose if rejected. Bosses boasted about their power, and writers were left with no recourse. Learning about noosts gave me a slight boost, at least in knowing I wasn’t the only one caught in this cycle—a process that left us all numb.
I loved my stories and responded promptly when editors requested a copy, though it often meant cutting creativity short. The rules were clear: follow them, or your work, once bursting with potential, would be noosted.
The whole process was suffocating. Deception filled the empty spaces left by stifled emotions. Silence reigned where there should have been stories brimming with life. It was like a knife, tearing through the soul, leaving behind nothing but a giant hole.
In the end, there was always a catch—a patch to cover the ills and chills of this world, a reality woven into every story that was told but too often negated or left unspoken.