The Young Novelist Wisely Remains Dead

He had been this month’s bright, shining hope,

Producing bits of promising prose

Poking out from obscure journals and the odd higher-brow magazine

Like shoots of tiny grasses between cracks in the pavement.

Then there was a novel—not good, really,

But flecked with enough promise

To leave the arbiters of culture wanting more,

But he departed the publication party

(Grinning with the twin glows of acheivement and the publisher’s open bar)

With a foot heavy on the pedal and tires light on tread,

Thus precluding a sequel.

 

And so he remains, beyond the slow decay of time,

The clucking and tut-tutting of critics

Who, bored, cranky, and ultimately undone by their own limitations,

Cannot help but add the dross of a touch of bronze

To all their former golden children.

Yet as his peers grow older, their lives in various states of disarray,

Their legacies vacillating between forgotten and disrepute,

He remains, on the dust jackets of hardcover editions

Or inside the covers of quaintly priced paperbacks

Festooned with their quasi-psychedelic artwork,

Completely untouched, his smile bright, hair dark and curly

His potential limitless and unsullied.

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3 thoughts on “The Young Novelist Wisely Remains Dead

  1. Hey W.K.! Your writing is really reflective and insightful. I really enjoyed reading through your most recent posts. They really are beautifully written. Well done and thanks for sharing!

    1. Thank you for the kind words, Jon–that makes you and my mother who think I can be insightful. My wife is very much on the fence on that one.

      1. Haha! Well, it’s all in the journey and not in the result…and I couldn’t be more pleased that you are on the journey. Stay in touch with my blog and I will be sure to do the same with your blog as well.

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