I never thought I would be able to be unemployed for any length of time. I am a doer. I like to be a part of ‘things’. But, people tell me, encouragingly, I am not unemployed, I write. But, as I sign on, I am technically unemployed. That knowledge lingers uncomfortably, at the back of my head (along with a scarcity of pennies). So, does writing provide me a veil of security, a rationale, an excuse? Does it pander to my lazy, insecure self?  Probably, for instance, I don’t hoover or wash the floor much. Or dig the garden. I prefer to work in bed than get up, wash, sit at a table and chair.  I only stop writing to get out of bed to walk the dog, swim, shop, cook. A writer…who re-writes, edits, checks face book, creates the odd poem. Call that a writer? I don’t know. I am suspicious. I hark back to the writers who came to visit us on the MA in Galway…yes yes yes, they said. But they had all been published. I have not, aside from a few poems.

When I finished the MA I gave myself until the end of 2013 to write. Then I would have to do something. I had a great year. I didn’t fret. I didn’t feel guilty. I wrote, entered competitions, started the blog, edited, read, ran a poetry workshop and danced as I walked. But 2014 has dawned. And it is as if I cast a spell on myself. Suddenly, the ease is gone. I am more unemployed than a writer.

So, I have to do something. It is winter. It is New Year. It is judgement time. I decided to self publish my novella on Amazon. The novella is about ageing. It seems appropriate. Yet there is still that slight stigma about self publishing. But, go for it, Kate, I thought. At least I will be able to stop worrying about it, and editing it. It will have to stand up for itself.

How to let people know? On the blog, I thought. Will I just send out a note…here is my novella. I didn’t like that idea, so I wrote a poem. I haven’t written a poem for over a month. I’m not sure it works, but it now belongs to Slainté, my novella, and so I must send them out into the world together.

Here goes:

Slainté

Isn’t it strange when the colours in the world disappear?

They are there

They ruminate, reflect

but have no resonance.

At the moment the sky is empty,

the day is shaky, the night wakeful,

eventful. Every day

In my winter garden I look for

daisies and buttercups,

snow drops.

But it’s too early, grey

cold, wet and dreary.

So, what to do? I lament.

Maybe, I think,

I can create from my bed

where it’s safe, warm and cosy.

So in an amazon fighting spirit of

Do…Do… Do…

to reclaim colour, I have done;

I have self published on Amazon

A novella called Slainté

For you, for me,

for each other.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HT7LVNW

This is the link. I’d love you to check it out!