To write a book is a
Blessing, an act of
Creative will,
An epoch of rapturous
Joy.
It is time spent with friends
New or old,
Experiencing life though
Different eyes. What an ecstasy to
Write “the end” and
Wish
For the world to
Fall in love
With what I have
Wrought.

But how shall they read
It?
How shall my joy become
Theirs?
To an editor I must appeal;
To an agent, my soul bare.
They ask, “What is
It
About? I do not want to read
It;
Send me a
Synopsis.”

Oh, thou dreadful word:
Synopsis!
I have written my story;
It
Is wonderful! Please do not make
Me summarize
It
As if
It
Is capable of being told in
Five to seven pages
Instead of three hundred thirty-four.
Do not make me skip
Wonderful scenes of humor and
Whimsy
Which I long labored over.

What’s this I find as I
Read through
It
Chapter by chapter
Trying to summarize the most wonderful
Story
In the world?
Some beloved
Scenes
I wrote may not be important?
Maybe I should
Edit.
(Oh, thou dreadful word!)
But that comes later.

And so there
It
Is. On six and a half pages—my
Story.
Then off to the editor and agent
It
Goes, bearing with
It
My hopes and dreams.

What’s that you say?
You like
It?
You want to read the
Complete?

Oh, thou beloved
Synopsis!