Jeff—Saturday
Inspiration for this parody of Robert Frost’s great poem, “After Apple-Picking,” came to me a few years back when I'd finished the manuscript of a new book (a standalone that never came to be).
On the premise that if at first you don't succeed be as the wicked and don't rest until you do (or something like that), during Covid I undertook to write a different sort of book. One I'd been meaning to write for years. But by the time I finished it, I'd moved on to a new publisher for my Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis series, and put that novel aside to concentrate on writing books #13 and #14 in the Kaldis series.
Having had such a wonderful experience with the folks at my new publisher, I decided to show them the manuscript for what would be the debut novel in a new series.
Cue the dancing cats and dogs, they loved it!!
On the occasion of such great news, I thought I'd repost this little ditty in the interest of giving the curious among you a window on how this writer feels at such a moment.
Here goes…
After Prose-Picking
My long, two-sided draft is staring up at me,
A heavenly thrill.
Though might be a plot line I didn't fill.
What of it? And there may be yet to see
Characters left out hanging on some bough.
But I am done with story telling now.
A sense of something missed is not a fright,
The grip of slumber has me drowsing off.
Yet, I still see my laptop screen in sight,
It’s as if I’m caught in an endless class,
Filled only with words and no time for sloth.
Held captive to words like whorey and crass.
My laptop crashed, though my draft got a break.
And I was well
For I’d backed up before the curse befell.
Now I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Manuscript pages appear and disappear,
From front to blessed end,
And every speck of my thoughts showing clear.
This author surely wants to see a break,
But feels the pressure of another round.
That will soon come from my publisher’s end,
Of comments based on where my seller’s been.
Plus then a mound
Of load on load of edits coming in.
But I have had too much
Of manuscripting: Now I’m overtired
From the great harvest I myself desired.
There were seventy thousand words to touch,
Cherish in hand, to sound, to let some fall.
But all
Those struck with worth,
No matter if part used or spiked with stubble,
I sent straight on to my word-mulching heap,
For in such earth,
One will find help with trouble.
Such when thoughts seem asleep, if sleep it is.
And words are gone.
I don’t turn to the Bard for words of his.
I search through my mulch, for what lies thereon.
Frost covered and deep.
—Jeff
