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Terry Kirts - Indianapolis, IN (USA):

April 29, 2001:
This book did not get me tenure or even an adjunct teaching
    position without benefits.
The proceeds from this book did not pay for my restful sabbatical
    in Aix-en-Provence.
No one threw a tasteful reception in the department lounge when this
    book was published. No articulate colleagues munched bland hors d’oeuvres or
    laughed to each other—“When I published my book. . .”—while a copy
    of the corrected proof went unnoticed, the thousand nights of a terrified
    life pushed aside for a box of pink wine.
I did not work on this book with an agent, an editor,
    a benevolent mentor, or even a best friend willing to give it
    a “quick read” over her summer vacation.
I printed this book on the temp agency’s laser printer while the
    overwrought office manager sat on the phone for hours with irate clients.
    I bound it with a ribbon woven from my hair—I could
    not afford silk thread—and decorated the cover with the blood I’d saved
    from years of paper cuts. You will not read this book.
    I have published these words as the stars publish light:
    a million hopeful glimmers sent spinning toward the void.