There’s nothing worse (well, there is, but still) than this: the last book done; its projected successor in limbo (publishers don’t want it); no clear way to embark upon the next one. Do I even want to write any more? I could retreat to the shoreline somewhere and re-inhabit my lizard brain. Just professional woes I suppose. I am in what James K Baxter called ‘great dryness of mind’. I turn, as so often before, to Beckett:
asylum under my tread all this day
their muffled revels as the flesh falls
breaking without fear or favour wind
the gantelope of sense and nonsense run
taken by the maggots for what they are
– construe that, if you can, begorrah!
pic by Maggie Hall, May 29, 2017, on Smith Street