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’.

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