The fresh-faced fictions enter Novel School,
Amazed at how big Crime and Punishment
Hall seems, frightened by little-brained
But popular commercial paperbacks, slapping
Each other in the library, certain they’ll be
Best-sellers this year.   

They’re dazzled by
The surrealism teacher, who numbers
Their pages backwards, and the mystery
Instructor who murders one of his students,
Leaves clues about the killer in poems.

In French class they’re translated, badly,
And in English they proofread themselves.
At lunch rivers of pulp are pressed between
Their teeth to make their bindings stronger,
They attempt to escape slush-piles during
gym while editors bean them with SASEs
And rejection letters. 

What they fear most
Is being caught ripping off scenes from books
Shelved ahead of them.  They’re remaindered
To the author’s office, where they shiver alone
On a typesetter’s plates.  Inside keys are furiously
Pounded.  Chapters and paragraphs are erased,
Judged by ruthless instruments of art and fate.