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.
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. |