It's just about a pound of paper and print,
With a brightly toned cover and a chunk of my soul in't.
It started as a thought that sprang into my head,
Amid so many ideas that I long gave up for dead.
This one struggled to be born, Swirling through my brain;
Then pouring out onto my screen, Ideas, words, sentences in train.
Each character so lovingly created Their lives unfolding like flowers,
Some to live, some to die, Some to discover their true powers.
Then finally, one autumn night, I typed two words - "the end."
And I shared my newborn novel with just a few close friends.
Their words emboldened me to take that next big step,
To find my self an agent who would offer me their help.
Agents, agents, everywhere, but none would rep my works.
Some gave me nice polite rejections. Others said nothing (jerks!)
Was there perhaps somewhere out there, a generous publishing firm,
That took unsolicited novels without demanding and expensive terms?
Yes! I finally found them! A small company that liked my story;
Willing to front the money and effort to help me attain literary glory.
Then one day - how blessed I felt - I held it in my hands!
My first book truly seemed to glow, and made me want to do handstands.
The hardest part was done, I thought! Now all that's left to do,
Is sit back and wait while critics swoon and I finally get my due.
Book signings - what fun they are! Sitting and smiling at strangers;
"Would you like to see my new book?" And they scurry as if from awful danger!
"I don't read books!" The saddest words an author ever hears.
"This sounds cool! I'll take one!" Inside my head are happy cheers.
But I check my Amazon ranking - I'm in three millionth place!
Why don't they know? Why don't they buy? I feel I have lost face.
But still I promote, I plug, I beg (some might say I pimp)
And now and then I sit and write until my hands are limp.
Authoring is an addiction, and hooked to it I am.
Fame and money would still be nice, but it's not about the glam.
It's about the story, the people, the adventure, the heart of every tale
And as long as you write to the very end, no novel truly fails.
So when you see me hinting - for about the hundredth time -
That I'd sure like to sell you a book, Go ahead and spend that dime!
(Or twenty. Whatever!)