I cannot write a novel today because……

my friend is writing poetry for gerbils & i need to watch the letter box for the manuscript, small and brown, a forgettable butterfly of verse

the towels in my airing cupboard cry out to be arranged not just by size and colour, but fluffiness, fraying and the frisson of pleasure they give against warm damp skin

I cannot write a novel today, because somewhere, out there, the perfect shoes exist – red, patent leather, kitten heeled, whimsical lacing and my feet are restless with longing

the sofa groans with undiscovered hidden treasures, chocolate coins, half smoked cigarettes, a tiny china rabbit, i feel the urge for urban archaeology

i cannot write a novel today, the dog seems depressed, not in touch with his inner wolf, i try to cheer him up by baying at the moon, its the least i can do

somebody has updated their status, a photograph of mashed potatoes, onion gravy, steaming sausages, I need to comment – yum yum

I cannot write a novel today, the horse needs me to stand, one foot resting on a gate, my chin against the sun warmed metal of the fastening, watching her eat grass

the ducks are all in disarray, facing the wrong way on the bathroom shelf, if ignored, disaster will certainly follow

i cannot write a novel today, the biscuit tin contains only cut price own label digestives, nobody can expect creativity on such poor fare

there are blue pens in the black pen jar and felt tips with the wrong colour lids and duplo in the lego box and the my little ponies are missing their mane combs

I cannot write a novel today

I didn’t write one yesterday

But tomorrow…..ah tomorrow

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

2 responses to “I cannot write a novel today because……

  • Stephen Wright

    Whistfull, lovely, cannot think of anything to say to improve it. Your best by far for some time – and that’s saying something – I’m going to read it for a third time now…

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