Publish and be damned: a cautionary tale Part 1.

On trawling the archives, I found mention
Of the school magazine in which I had,
As a sixteen year old, written a piece.
It had been long discarded with other
Much embarrassing juvenilia.

With surprise, shame and regret did I find
A clarity, drive and variety
In the writing which sophistication
Of the adult had rejected. But why?
Even the archivist, reading through it,
Showed respect, bordering on deference.

I remembered. My mother had written
Quite beautifully on emotional
Responses to sensory impressions.
Some were taken by the quality press.
But she could never top one thousand words.
In despondency, she secretly hoped
I would achieve in what, to her great regret,
She had failed.

I rebelled. I might end up just like her.
I did not want to parade emotion
For all to see. Instead I preferred the
Objective, rational route of study
At university.

University was about writing.
I could string words, sentences, paragraphs
Together better than most- even there.
And have time for real life- wider culture
For the mind. Other things in plentiful
Supply for the eager, youthful body.

Life after was most disappointing.
Workplaces governed by those who transmuted
Conformity into absurdity.
With minimum space for self-expression,
Writing- even the most impersonal
And detached- became a narcotic drug
That I must have to insulate myself.

So a doctorate by thesis and then
Entry to higher education work.
Papers in the academic journals
And a job in the best institution
For my arcane specialism.

Writing was again my first strike weapon.
Academic text is mediocre.
Little was needed to bring success-
More papers; books and journals to edit.
But I needed to do what my mother
Had always dreamed of- to write a book.

The first was easy but not a real book,
A text arising from a course I taught.
Loosely linked chapters appealed to students.
A well established co-author helped
It sold well enough and that was the key.

The next and subsequent books were all mine.
Publishers cared not for sample chapters:
"We know you can write for yours readership".
It was who would buy it which became
The subject of intense interrogation.

It was a proper book- an argument
Throughout challenging orthodoxies
With more than a hint of a campaigning edge.
It attracted ardent fans and invites
To give lectures both at home and abroad
As well as big chunks in compilations.
But the orthodox in power disdained
And waited for the right moment to pounce.

They could not immediately for I had
A powerful supporter who himself
Almost caused even greater disaster.
A leftist knight mandarin, in secret,
He coaxed: "Your expertise is just suited
To write a speech for a senior member
Of the Royal family".

Then all disappeared down the rabbit hole.
The first in the chain was a knight tycoon.
He was expansive and quite unguarded.
I sensed some strange kind of coup was in mind
To return to enlightened despotism.

That made eerie sense. The tycoon, as head
Of the biggest employer, saw threats
From government wanting to dismantle
His industrial empire.

Next to call was the royal's chief of staff.
She who answered tried a quick seduction-
Only a good catch would have that number.
Her boss- a future top ambassador
Cut quick to the speech and, in expiation,
Declared: "His Royal Insanity thinks..."

I wrote the speech- dull and conventional.
The serious newspapers all loved it-
The mad prince returning to sanity.
What if they later found it was written
By a left-wing atheist republican?

And a possible coup? All this arising
From a modest book that I had written
From a moderately unorthodox
Standpoint.

My salvation came from the outraged wife
Who decided to sabotage the welcome
For her errant husband's seeming return
To normalcy, by revealing in full
The 'three in a marriage' narrative
To a massive TV audience.

That kept the media fully engaged,
Protecting me- but temporarily.