Michael D. Beil

This is the poem I wrote while awaiting publication of Betrayal by the Book.

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The Ballad of Book Number Nine

 

I

 

With his pub date looming, mere weeks away, 

No longer can he keep his dreams at bay. 

From his brain’s recesses, dim, dark, and deep,

Into each waking moment they stealthily seep. 

Despite all evidence that nothing has changed, 

From common sense he’s become estranged. 

Book by book, his dreams torn asunder, 

Yet still he cannot help but wonder:

 

At long, long last, is this the one? 

 

II

 

Well past middle age, he’s barely mid-list,

But that matters not to this fantasist.

Through this ordeal, he’s been eight times before

And eight times before, there’s been sorrow galore.

Yet he feels there’s magic in book number nine,

With his name in print across the spine,

So once again he dares to dream

And to all the doubters he yearns to scream:

 

This time it’s diff’rent; this is the one!

 

III

 

An imagined call from his agent so loyal

Blithely reveals the fruits of his toil:

Starred reviews! and raves in the trades,     

Each smitten by his hero’s escapades.

There’s talk of awards and film rights are in play,

Translations and options and checks on the way!

With more news each minute his cellphone chimes,

Surely a place on THE list in the Times! 

Reese and Jenna and morning shows in the city, 

What’s that? A call from the Pulitzer Committee!

 

In his dreams it’s all true, and all do agree: This is the one.

 

 

IV

 

The day grows closer and some doubts creep in, 

A Goodreads review that’s a kick in the shin. 

One measly star, because she’s offended,

Despite finding the writing to be “quite splendid.” 

That gay character was just too much to take, 

If children read it, she wrote, their worlds would quake.  

So he logs out of Goodreads and similar sites, 

He swears off reviews, with their snark and their slights. 

And then he wonders and ponders

aloud as he wanders:

Is this the one?

 

V

 

There’s more to come as publicity commences, 

Vying hard to break down his feeble defenses.

For starters, some news from Publishers Weekly, 

A six-figure deal that affects him obliquely:

A middle grade novel by an actor quite famous, 

Ghostwritten, of course, for the big ignoramus.

But what makes our hero especially bitter,

Are those legions on Insta, on TikTok, on Twitter.

O, how can a midlister hope to compete,

With one who can reach millions with just one tweet.

Online he proclaims, to his dozens of fans, 

that it’s still somewhat likely

that this is the one.

 

VI

 

With each cycle the news turns more and more bleak, 

Is there any more havoc the far right can wreak? 

Book bans and boycotts and school boards gone wild, 

What if his book lands on the list they’ve compiled? 

It’s not like he had nothing to fear from the left: 

Sensitivity readers! Of hope he’s bereft. 

Algorithms now masters of what will be sold, 

He need not ask for whom the bell hath tolled.

Head under the covers, brain all out of steam,

Still he mutters and sputters, and clings to his dream:

Thisistheonethisistheonethisistheonethisistheone

 

VII

 

 

Launch day has arrived, an event long planned,

It turns out to be a bit less than grand.

No hordes at the bookstore, no line out the door, 

No audience cheering and begging for more.

But none of that matters, as the crowd swells to six, 

The truth hits him at last, like a truckload of bricks.

In the front row a boy hugs a signed book to his chest,

And smiles up at the writer, who feels suddenly blessed.

For when you get down to it, the truth is quite clear,

And moments like these to his old heart are dear. 

He writes not for reviewers, for bloggers, or prizes,

Nor for the money, he wryly surmises. 

Emulating the writers he loved as a child, 

With their stories that always left him beguiled.

He writes for the kids, for those smiling young faces, 

And that is the fate that he finally embraces. 

In the hotel that night he picks up his pen, 

And starts the outline for book number ten. 

 

– Michael D. Beil 

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