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Sketches for Unsellable YA Novels

MAYA BECK

​1: Princess, Guillotine 
this could be the story of a royal relinquishing privilege, ​     
             a model ally, class traitor, teen john brown jeanne d'arc. 

             yes today's princesses must be nonpink, tomboy or bossbitch, 
             but she could storm out of her family’s longtable conniving, 
             pour skinflint vinegar wine on the haughtiest crowned head
             reject regalia & robes, take from family coffers brass coins
             to sow in serfs’ too-barren plots. could skulk & slink
             away from tulle to share roasts & gossip with the help her age
             one day blackhooded, shadowhidden, back against the wall, she could witness
             an Angry Poor assembly, its raised-mug chant to behead her kith & kin
             she joins in, tipsy, light, joins their rpgesque party
             she loves, is loved, finally feels, belongs,
             aids & abets with poisons, secrets shared. 
             and falls in love? yes, with a woodworking commoner,
             her pupils darkwide at the sheen of the newly crafted 
             guillotine he pats, beckoning even her soul down from its tower
             maybe she daggers against a vicious uncle, arrows the aunt who discovers,
             duels the sadistic sister, the landlord, the rich 
             must be defenestrated, personally severed, privately
             there is fire, heartracing, sacrifice, escape, 
             confrontation, disguise, confession, collapse. 
             until the bravest of her partyfellows, one from every guild
             are voted to rule, the first parliament.
             our heroine loses the vote, unchosen
             are the people ungrateful? maybe but
             maybe she's never dreamed of rule,
             gladly goes hiding, maybe tosses her name 
             to the wayside of a dappled winding dirtpath

             to live cottagecore ever after.  
it's probably propaganda, 
probably fawns over everyday people, 
everyday choices, the crowd, the mob,
the inextravagant illuxurious, cooperative communal, stateless moneyless
far too much
a literary agent will declare democracy is unromantic! 
everyone dreams of their own supremacy
we've got to make these kids feel special
not equal! toss it in a trashbin
& they're right. I don't know 
what might drive the powerful to share,
to disavow moreness or tyranny.
it won't sell.
the only ones to read it will be those rare dead french
who remember brumaire, pluviôse, floréal, or thermidor;
teen internet marxists who dream in nongregorian, 
prevocal queenhating commonwealth subjects,
& every ghost justified in cutting off their parents.



​2: Jailbreak, Invasion
this could be the story of a daring young friend group
             as they free their unjustly imprisoned brother, 
             overthrowing the very idea of prison
             because of & during an alien invasion.
             picture a band of black teens, each a distinct flavor of fresh 
             after the magnificent seven samurai. found family
             torn apart. to free their comrade 
             (a little too fast in his blue coupe, sure, mouthy with elders 
             & fond of herb-—but that’s no crime) 
             they dig at the root, hand over hand the darkest dirt to gather names: 
             every cop, every counselor, every attorney or lawyer who ever 
             manhandled their lives. those who leave purpling on wives necks,
             daughters backs, insides of moms, souls of detainees, 
             the holiest of hit lists. but american heroes cannot kill, 
             only let die. the klanslike principal’s fiery death
             must be accidental. they must give the sheriff time to surrender; 
             the trigger must be his choice. we add a fantastic catalyst
             aliens too, empty inhuman for the narrative to slaughter
             without remorse, with flair. then we can peel off the face of a local politician
             & the tendons of unearthly Evil explain his bigotry of law.
             our teen heroes can be faultless when louisiana prison farm 
             burns into low charred earth, every captive freed. 
             the young nonviolent go unchased, unrecaptured
             because aliens, rikers harris maricopa all fall as salt columns
             (in realworld manners with galactic veneer) 
             sparking across the backdrop are slow adult discussions:
             investigations, allegations, decisions
             program noise to our heroes. Surrounding them are
             explosions, subterfuge, disguise, epiphany
             lush laser crossfire, multi-car pile-ups & 
             so many dead (inhuman) policemen it's too fun to write.
             our heroes withdraw from the fire into joy, 
             timeskip quite nicely into family, community, 
             academia well-paying co-ops
             in a postpolice prisonerless future
             different paths but each bears legends
             each lives praxis ever after.  
it's probably propaganda, 
probably too open on its author’s despisals,
on how I dream. hinges too tightly on facts & figures
upsetting to buffered & cushioned young minds.
a literary agent will laugh the end of all prisons is unrealistic! 
learn to hold your tongue—the market abhors a radical. 
we've got to give these kids escape, burn it on their desktop,
& they're right. I don't know 
what might bring neoslavery to its knees,
what might bring japandi-tan rehabilitative cells
a pacatory army of therapists psychiatrists  
i can write as a vision, prayer, or blueprint, but
it won't sell.
the only ones to read it will be any assassinated black panthers,
juvenile detainees who are barred books but dream with jungian unity,
preteen internet socialists so good at doxxing they find lost thoughts,
& the ghosts of every drug war casualty who never reached adulthood.



3: Superhero, Service
this could be the story of slice of life superhumans
             whose worldsaving is the most mundane. 
             our protagonists, newly posthuman are gifted
             telepathy, teleporting, fire, or flight. nonbinary,
             both. deeply in love, full of will-they-won’t-they banter
             but of course they will. they already have. 
             their love is as healthy stable small
             as their goals: no hunger, all housed, less death, more sharing. 
             they commune in a chatroom become letters aglow against darkmode, 
             this weeks’ agenda is for strongmen to raise up pillars’ legs
             for a new train, geomancers to slice earth & rebirth aging rivers
             to rip out pipelines like guinea worms, crack open superyachts like snake eggs
             scoop the children out the mines, slap away excavator claws, 
             plant windmills in bloom & fly home, superspeed. 
             they plot, sitting midnight on the swingset, 
             around pancake stacks on a diner table, 
             while sharing boba sundaes, slow & cute, just before a grocery
             store bossnapping. “we won’t harm you. just promise 
             to place all day-olds & surplus in this portal
             instead of dumpsters.” boring things like full cupboards
             our heroes nestle together for movie night
             turn off the radio news that labels them terrorists. 
             they face no single human villain, no cabal, but an empire
             whose leather gloves ache to fondle a coup, ache for a sniper gunsight
             upon any candidate not theirs who steps before a presidential podium
             upon the arms of any other regime, upon our heroes naive smiles
             there must be violence, largescale, conflict, lives lost, 
             worldly stakes & mythic war after all—your favorite characters
             all die, but so does capital
             the survivors live solarpunk ever after. 
it's probably propaganda,
probably at once too peaceful & too angry
at deaths too distant for american schoolbooks.
a literary agent will conclude this needs more conflict! 
a hero is only as good as his villain
established couples are boring, 

only the chase is romantic feed it to a shredder
& they're right. I don't know 
how to build excitement for the glacial & daily,
how to draw eyes away from warspeed, microblog, & spectacle
from fistfight to a structure; how to bring the power to do
the most good. even the rich are bored here
it won't sell. 
the only ones to read it will be teen internet anarchists who dream up banned cookbooks,
unschooled & deschooled siblings whose pretend play verges on mindreading,
retired superheroes who moonlight as borderless doctors
& every one of peter singer’s drowned & drowning children.



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Maya Beck is a broke blipster, lapsed Muslim, recovering otaku, pan demigirl, socially-anxious social justice bard, and speculative fiction writer. Born on Kumeyaay land with a Detroit mom/Chicago dad Black pedigree, she is a blended descendant of displaced Hausa, Fulani, and Bantu peoples. She is an alum of writing programs including VONA, Kimbilio, Tin House, and The Loft and writing has been nominated for the Pushcart and the Best of the Net. She tweets as @mayathebeing, blogs at mayabeck.com, and is pursuing a creative writing MFA at UCSD. Maya is also petmom to a bratty bun named Blossom.

ON WHAT IT MEANS TO BE KALEIDOSCOPED
to be kaleidoscoped is to be chimerical, reflective, refracting, and capricious. It is to see and be seen from many possible angles.
​


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