The First Part of the Biography

Mr. Lewis, I've been given the first half
Of your autobiography
To edit

Oh, don't be frightened
Tristan's still handling the second half of the book

Why did we split it up
You might ask?

Well, you see
We split up all our autobiographies here, Mr. Lewis

One of us handles the first half
And the other handles the interesting half

No, Mr. Lewis
I didn't misspeak

Oh, I mean
I did misspeak

If anybody at the publishing company
Head me tell our biggest project for the Fall
That only half his book is interesting
They'd fire me in a heartbeat

But I plan on quitting anyway after this book
So it really doesn't matter

I'm quitting because I'm tired of reading the boring halves
Of every book EVER

Oh, don't feel bad, Mr. Lewis
Most autobiographies are fairly boring
Until the author gets around
To finishing up
Talking about his or her boring childhood
And teenage years
And the genesis story
Of how their parents met
And the farm--

There's always a farm for some reason

Do you have any idea
How many farms I've read about
Over the past five years?

Farm after farm after farm

I have never met ANYBODY
That has lived or even spent extended time on
A farm
And yet
Every book I read

--A farm

It's mystifying to me

The publisher knows
That books are like this
So the senior editor
Gets to read the good half

Where the story really gets going
And there's intrigue
And a career
And scandal

And I read about what third grade was like for you
And cut as much as humanly possible
Then break the news to you
While you curse me
And bless that beloved Tristan
Who isn't cutting anything
Because you gave him all the good stuff

Do you want to know how unnecessary
The first part of your autobiography is, Mr. Lewis?

Or the first part of ANY autobiography
For that matter

Tristan never talks to me
EVER

He doesn't need to
He never has to ask
What happened
In the first part of the book
Because the second part
Usually stands on its own
Just fine

So there you go

Half of what you've written is pointless
And we will cut as much as we possibly can
Until you threaten to murder me
And then the publisher will cut a little more
And hope you were bluffing

Don't you realize what people want to read about, Mr. Lewis?

Aren't you aware that people
Readers, I mean
Don't care about the farm
Or third grade
Or what your grandmother's pancakes tasted like?

We want to hear about what happened
When you testified in that murder trial
That's all

Hell, your book doesn't even need to be a book
It should be a magazine article
It should be a brochure

But the problem is
You can't charge as much
For those

Those don't pay as well

So instead, we let you write a book
And we sift through all the shit
No reader will

Because they'll just flip to the good parts
And then donate the book
To their local library

But we, your publisher and editors
Have to dress the whole thing up
So that you're happy
Because otherwise
You'll take your fifteen good pages
And your two hundred pages of fluff
To somebody else

So there you go, Mr. Lewis

That's the book business

And please, tell me how your book turns out

I'm going to the bookstore right now
To read the second halves
Of all the books
I helped edit

My mind is full of unfinished stories
And I'm confident
That it's helping to drive me insane

Then, after I'm done
Shoving all that nonsense
Into my head

I'm going to see a man
About buying a farm