The men stand in a line, waiting,
No glass between them and her,
Arrayed in order of size and girth
For her to judge and weigh and
Choose in this final revenge against
The misogyny of John Knox,
Equality now in digital fantasy and
Naked reality. She takes them in
Her hand, and they quicken with
That inbred instinct men have.
Except for the final small one who
Doesn’t look down but directly at
Her with a sky in his eyes. It is him
She chooses to free.
R 13/06/2023 12:31
Because Aggie’s not really been selling in any quantities at all (this is the story for 99 percent of writers, not just self-published or hybrid-published or trad-published ones) I’d got into a frame of mind questioning the quality of the writing, starting to think and assume it was the worst thing I’d ever written. But I’ve had some really good feedback (from B and M amingst others, thanks), and, sitting on the London train right now, working day job stuff and writing stuff, I understand that I’m wrong, that to have written 187k words that don’t lose momentum, to have written a story that carries itself through almost 500 pages without slacking, is an immense achievement. I mustn’t, shouldn’t care about the selling, but about the writing and the monument that writing has created for me, but most importantly for the characters in the book. Because they are, after all, real.
On the train home. Weary, in truth. Many thoughts inside my head but none of them gem formed sufficiently to articulate. Walking with friend R in Spitalfields earlier after meeting K and D, we both agreed that a definition of happiness is impossible. And that is the human condition in a nutshell.