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Poem
I used to be ashamed to say that I
once wrote for a rather large company,
the kind the likes to print up greeting cards,
and for some reason, make Christmas movies.

Now this caused much consternation in me,
I was an Ivy-educated young man,
had studied Joyce, Foucault, Derrida,
was filled with notions of writing things grand.

But young writers are a dime for ten dozen,
and very quickly my wallet did hurt,
plus my first book was far from completion,
so I grit my teeth and took the hack work.

Some said I should be glad I as writing,
if a person could even call it that,
we basically just rewrote the same movie,
it just gated on this puffed-up young grad.

But what really set of my youthful temper,
what seemed an insult to my questing mind,
was the lead writer heading up my team,
the once-great novelist, Beaumont Erskine.

Yes, that one, who nearly got the Nobel,
who ruled the book-clubs when I was a teen,
seven novels probing into our souls,
a Dostoevsky with some Faulkner sheen.

The critics adored him, and in college
my best professors dissected his prose,
looked for profound secrets deep in his words,
the bare truths only philosophers know.

He used to do talk shows, and conferences,
people would quote him to try and sound deep,
but them he seemed to just fall of the Earth,
the years went by and no one heard a peep.

So when I saw him there, writing such schmaltz,
I immediately lost all respect,
one of our era’s most profound writers
squandering all his rare talents on this dreck!

When writers like me would kill for such skill,
what right had he to waste his voice? His words?
To use such insight for TV Christmas flicks,
it seemed malicious, and beyond absurd!

But I was a lowly, new staff writer,
and the money the job brought in did help,
so I kept quiet about my feelings,
yes, I kept my opinions to myself.

When I wasn’t writing corny romance,
I wrote my first book in my apartment,
my feeling towards Erskine just drove me on,
wouldn’t surrender to cheap sentiment.

To my surprise, the publishers came quick,
before I knew it, I had a contract,
I got good reviews, solid sales for Lit Fic,
to be honest, I was taken aback.

I gave my notice at the company,
and grew cocky as my dreams became real,
decided I would call Beau Erskine out,
I’d make the sell-out know just how I feel...

CONTINUES IN PART II.
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