On Writing a Novel

Stare down the barrel of a novel,

roll up the manuscript,

the paper crisp,

and you’ll see it, you’ll taste it:

the target, a fading shadow in the mist (a lick of candy-flossed dreams with a lisp);

the loneliness as cold as the steel that supports your numb arse  and your broken fucking dreams;

the self-doubt, tips of fragments of spitzer bullets at the bottom of your cereal bowl;

and the blanks – oh dear god the blanks –

more hurtful than writing ‘the end’.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s