This week's Sunday Guardian column.
Reflections on the
recent Vikram Seth-Penguin Random House imbroglio -- in Pushkin sonnets, a form
that Seth has had some success with.
A
writer's life is hard they say
The
words they come, the words they go
Scribble,
scribble, every day
The
reading public doesn't know
The
toil and stress behind each line
The
time it takes to make it shine
There's
no accounting for the Muse
Some
even turn to pills and booze
The
daily grind can get too much
Hours
fly by without a page
The
writer's room can be a cage
A
dungeon or a rabbit hutch
That's
why when faced with a schedule
You
shake your head, you break the rule
Publishers
on the other hand
Follow
dates and calendars
Deadlines
are theirs to command
Objections
kicked aside like curs
Your
stammering and stuttering
Will
not accomplish a thing
Profit,
not loss, is their goal
It isn't that
they have no soul
Their
hands are tied, they face a block
It’s
elementary, you see
It's
all about double entry
That's
why your schedule they will stalk
The
House of Penguin Random
It
cares about your fandom
Be
it a girl, be it a boy
Suitable
or otherwise
Be
it May, June or July
Meet
the deadline, come, be wise
Recall
the contract that you signed
Break
it now and you’ll be fined
In
this race you can’t be sick
They
want you to be prolific
Roll
that boulder up that hill
Think
of the Booker and the fame
All
yours if you play the game
Think
of Oates, Joyce Carol
Buck
up now that’s what we say
Think
of Faulkner or Hemingway
The
libretto will have to wait
Start
that novel once again
Otherwise,
get this straight
No
more toasts with champagne
There
is a way, mark my words
Don’t
proceed by halves and thirds
Look
them in the eye and say
You’re
working on more Shades of Grey
That
will earn you a second chance
In
front of you they'll start to melt
And
that will be your lifebelt
To
ask them for the next advance
Lean
back now, gloat awhile
Their
throats are yours, Saatchi-style
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