Inspired by a discussion on Making Light
As an agent phones
On a blue and white computer screen
A book completes its final scene
In the ghetto
And it’s author moans
Cause if there’s one thing he knows for sure
It’ll never win the Pulitzer
In the ghetto.
Poeple do I have to plead?
He wrote it to be fun to read
And there’s even subtext ‘tween the lines.
But no matter how profound
No mention of it will be found
In the the literary supplement
Of the New York Times.
And the sellers try
And the little book that the critics missed
Starts to climb the Locus list
In the ghetto.
As the readers buy
It scorns the critics it can’t please
And just starts earning royalties
In the ghetto.
Then one day in jubilation
The young book breaks away
It goes all in for mass appeal
While it’s author signs a three-book deal
In the ghetto.
And the eager fans form in a line
For the paperback book with the price on the spine
In the ghetto.
And as the book reprints
On a blue and white computer screen
Another book completes its final scene
In the ghetto
And its author moans