I have murdered my darling.
Like a bird of a certain blue vintage, it is ex, dead, kaput, finished.
The new book is dead. (Long live the new book).
It came to me, as with everything I have learned, very slowly, and then painfully quickly. Let’s say one day
I looked out of the window, or was in a meeting, or was warming my hands by the fire. Then
this knowledge, this absolute-acute knowledge
not what is the capital of Peru?
more like an ache, like your hand being stepped on in the scrum
that it was over
that what I had thought was witty and original and ground-breaking
was in fact none of these things
just more of the rubbish old same
and that I would in time-honoured etc.
have to start again, fail again
(etc.) and then fail.
Bam. What film people call the All Is Lost moment
(there is one in every film)
just before the hero regroups and finds new purpose, new healing, new words
to complete their (idiot’s) quest.
Or in my case, book of poems.
Just 42 pages God, that’s all I ask for!
The new book is dead.
Long live the new book.