My Novel & Kindle & Stuff

Well I’ve crept along to the next page of my Kindle e-publication. God this feels so counter-intuitive. For all of my loudness, indiscretion, and social awkwardness – I sometimes wonder if I have an Asperger’s diagnosis – I am actually a preposterously shy person. A terrified neurotic.

But nevertheless, it’s getting there. After submitting the manuscript to numerous agents – and getting replies that ranged from the encouraging (Curtis Brown) to the no-reply-at-all (many, who shall be nameless), I shall now try Kindling my novel.

It will at least feel like the completion of a process. I am also intending to publish on other platforms – but Kindle is a start. Writing the blurb has been surprisingly fun.

But a cover? Oh yes?

And as I have purchased a few ISBNs, shall I call myself a publisher? What name? Now that’s something it might be fun to ponder.

Looks beautiful out, from the window beside me, but there’s a cold wind. I’m thinking of my friend with benefits in Scotland and wanting to escape up there. At least start messaging with him.

But – hey – it’s good to do something counter-intuitive isn’t it? In fact, essential.



Is it in the nature of music to become more hectic?
Or merely an excuse for not having an end,
In the sense of resolution, so to let it
Fizzle out in grandiose disintegration?

The toy car I found in the street is motionless;
The only car I possess, I feel like adding.
On the window-sill, red and shiny and exciting,
Next to the Icon of the Triumph of Orthodoxy:

A golden postcard from the British Museum,
The Empress Theodora, the Virgin and Child –
The infant like a shrunken Athenian philosopher
With his receding hairline and toga –

And all the priests and administrators there
Against the cracked background scored with crosses.
Did Iconoclasm save the Empire? All that bling
Melted down to pay the armies in adequate coinage?

I’ll leave that question open. I pick up my toy car
And run it along the table beside my poem.