The Year of the Platform

“Branding” was '07's motto.

Every author learned he's got to

Flaunt the palms and laurels that form

Famous folk's distinctive platform.

Agents learned how well it pays

To inflate clients' résumés.

But midlist writers fetched up stranded,

Unrecognized, unknown, unbranded.

Q1 profits turned to dust

When Advance Marketing went bust.

Stricken indie presses writhed

To see their precious cash flow tithed

'Til Perseus, like that Greek of yore,

Delivered them from ruin's door.

Retailers faced major issues,

Chain store margins thin as tissues.

Big box outlets, e-books, clubs,

A host of discount Beelzebubs

Like Costco, Amazon and Google

Courted bookstore shoppers frugal.

Holtzbrinck to Macmillan morphed.

“What's the difference?” pundits scoffed.

“Grand Central also looks the same.”

A rose by any other name....

The trade enjoyed increasing traffic

In comics, manga and novels graphic

As grownups hastened to embrace

The dumb down of the populace.

Language cops are in a snit

With Skinny Bitch and On Bullshit.

Do “Assholes rule”? Oh no, they sell.

For censorship has gone to h**l.

Harper faced a sticky wicket.

What will life be after Snicket?

And will Scholastic's empire totter

With the final Harry Potter?

Anxiously that firm went prowling

For a clone of J.K. Rowling

To fill the awful void that follows

Harry and the Deathly Hallows.

E-books wakened from their funk.

E-mailed books? No longer junk!

When editors and agents schmooze,

As like as not they'll introduce

A jargon-laden nomenclature

Like none Linnaeus found in nature.

“DADs” and “DOIs” and “PODs” and “Digits,”

“RAM” and “ROM” and “Gigs” and “Widgets.”

We raise a glass of cold Frascati

To editors turned technorati.

But are our values turning asswards

When opening books requires passwords?

James Frey's fortunes wildly bounced.

A novel yet! But Harper pounced.

Some thought that Frey's career was feces

After A Million Little Pieces.

Sneering cynics! That'll learn 'em!

They didn't reckon on Jon Burnham,

Who, ignoring sage advice,

Defied the maxim “Fool me twice.”

Judith Regan filed a brief

Seeking millions in relief

After News Corp's chief commander

Pulled the gynarch's plug and canned her.

Faulty judgment her transgression,

Buying O.J.'s faux confession.

Tempers soared from hot to fissile

Over her abrupt dismissal.

Harperites expressed belief

She ran an independent fief.

Slurs attributed to Regan

Would horrify Menachem Begin.

Her charges seemed somewhat chimeric,

Something linking Fox and Kerik

And presidential hopeful Rudy

Being the cause for dumping Judy.

Overlooked while this transpired—

A sordid crime and the book it sired.

Jack Romanos cashed his chips,

Threw a fete replete with VIPs.

S&S's top banana

Set a course for staid Savannah.

To manage stress he eschewed Rolfing,

Chose instead to pursue golfing.

We bow to his ambitions Snead-y

And curtsy to successor Reidy.

Publishers don't set much store on

“Happy returns,” an oxymoron.

To us returns are never happy,

Signifying sales are crappy.

But 'tis the season for cliché—

We wish you many anyway.