Yesterday I sent off the third draft of my novel ‘Singing for the Dawn’ to The Oxford Editors. I am paying them to advise if it has any hope of publication and if so, how it should be changed to acheive this. It feels like I have sent off my heart in a box. Now it is being examined, blood classified, labelled and, just perhaps, lined up. One day maybe it will join a thousand other frozen organs waiting in a basement room conveniently situated next to the hospital mortuary. But will its time really come? Will it ever line up enough to transplant effectively and beat out new life? Or will it seize and atrophy from neglect before being quietly transferred to the room next door?
My next novel is in the ether.
It is like a newly glazed pot, polished pristine perfect in my head. So pure and transparent it is hardly of this world. It has pride of place in an acclaimed ceramic exhibition. It has hue and glaze beyond compare and a design so simple and original that it confounds and mesmerises all who gaze lovingly upon it. The crowds of prospective viewers have to be held back by police – cordoned and regimented in unprecedented queues weeks before the gallery opens. Reporters have to be by invitation only, armed guards protect it day and night because it is so uninsurable, so unique and irreplaceable…
But it cannot hold one drop of water.
Bring on the mud and the wheel. I need to throw my thumbs into the spinning slop and pump my foot on the pedal in time with today’s remaining heart.
Better one line of drivel actualised onto this page, in the present, than re-reading yesterday’s efforts or revelling in the fantastic lines of unborn prose in my head.