Getting a book published: Checklist

Novel pitch. Check.

Cover letter. Check.

Synopsis. Check.

First 3 Chapters. Check.

The rest of the novel... erm, working on that.

Baby steps

I'm trying to write a book. I write every day. Am I a writer? I want to be one, I want people to read me, but maybe I'm already there.

What actually makes you a writer, what gives you that title... the confidence, the authority, to call yourself the word with the big W. People keep the books they've written in the drawer of their bedside cabinet, and I never understood why. But maybe that is their dream come true, maybe they don't need to be read by the mass audience. I don't know if I see the point in writing something, in having something to say, if you don't want to share it with people. My problem is that I do; have something to say; want to share it...

The thing is, the road seems so long to get the thing you want to say written down, printed, and then read. I guess I just have to keep on walking.

You've got to make it happen

Oasis, on the radio, telling me over and over again...

Dreams, dreams, dreams

Are dreams meant to be dreamt,
Or are they to be lived?

Are they to be strived for,
Followed as a lamb follows its mother,
To be clung to as a koala bear does, a tree?
Or are they to burn an eternal fire deep inside,
To be kept alive with dry twigs,
A small flame in the darkness?

Are they to be gazed at
With the eyes out of focus?
Or are they to be sought out,
Eyes blurred with concentration?

A dream ceases to be that when it is realised.
Should we try to make them happen
Or should we beat away, the
Glare of the flame hidden
Within our warm, wet flesh?

Never Once

I never told you, once.

I never told you that
I don’t sleep because you dance in the darkness of my eyes,
I can’t work because you're laughing through my ears, nor
Do I breathe when you stand there, before me.

I feel my heart beneath my chest - skipping, pounding.
When you look at me, it feels as if it’s about to crack through me
And bleed all over you.

When you smile at me,
When you touch the bruise on my arm,
My heart tears in two,
Not with desire, nor twitters, nor dances or giggles.

But because you’ll never know,
Not for a second,
Not once.