I can’t seem to concentrate on my notebook unless I’m out and about, so I went for a wander around Bridgnorth again the other day. It was bloody freezing,  but productive; five pages of shaky prose is better than nothing at all. I went past the ruins, took in the view, warmed myself with milky coffee then took the bus back to Wolves. A brief escape, but worth it.

Lovely place. It’s not the same as discovering new places in Holland, but it’ll have to do…travel in Britain is noticeably more expensive, so I’ll probably be too broke to go anywhere more adventurous than Walsall before long. Whatever the stories ask of me, though. Naomi posted a few very kind tweets yesterday, saying she enjoyed reading the top secret work-in-progress finished version of Doors. Well, it’s “finished” so long as I don’t get my proofed copy back, dripping in red lines and crosses…oh dear. Let’s not jinx it. I’m so happy to have positive comments – it’s all good confidence food. Naomi’s a very different reader to myself (ie. she actually reads books with character development and plot, whereas I am all about the surface and style – if it’s lacking in grammar and brimming with pretence, COUNT ME IN!), so it’s a precious opinion to have. I’ve been playing around with cover ideas and I think I have something I’m happy with for a first attempt…I’m dying to upload it but I’ll resist. A lady must have her secrets.

Question: If I use the same lunatic in two different pieces, does that make it a series? I think I am writing one long poem, sliced into thinner pieces. In case you missed it, Charley burnt down a house last week.

Charleyboy’s Following

Man at a desk.
Headphones on,
looking down a lens at
a nice guy on the street,
one he’s watched for
a while, oh, long while now.
Leaves his office every week day at
[ 5 : 1 5 ]
coat on, lights up,
hits the pavement for a
short journey home.

POINT ONE:
Nice guy always walks home alone.

When he reaches the corner
he waits for the signal,
crosses carefully to
cut through the park.
It is here he must be met by
the watcher at the desk, before
he reaches the strollers,
pedestrians, perhaps
willing to chance
a rude heroic act.

POINT TWO:
Though he’d like to,
man cannot wait for the dark.

Today is chosen because
it’s a Friday;
most others gone early,
leaving luckless old Larry
lonely as he treads down the
path what he walked up
that morning.
Cigarette lit as usual,
this time no menthol,
puffing in time with
his thoughts, week’s work
and high hopes
for the weekend.
Friend’s birthday, a
dinner with mum,
quiet curse said on Sundays
when he remembers
it all starts again.
Face on his feet as
he heads for the gate,
the park and, beyond it,
high-rise known as home.
Doesn’t see a shadow
slipping out of a doorway,
dim porch lost in cardboard, neglect;
all a lie.

POINT THREE:
This plot stewed for months,
threads lovingly tied.
Our watcher is an
expert in fieldwork,
real pro: plumbing depths
darkly sculpted, to which
only he goes.

Charleyboy, on the run
from his prior bad act
brings a scalpel
to the lips of
the doctor, this man
he has followed
and trapped
like a rat
in an alley. This
careless man of medicine,
fearful and reticent, reluctant
to beg which is well
for he won’t get no
mercy from
that one. The mad one.
One lickin’ chops
with a knee on
the chest of
a good guy, so close
to the corner, to
the park, crowds and
safety in numbers,
commuting anonymous,
not knowing a comrade
who dies, soaked
in numbness.

Following, waiting games
that paid off, a life
he has cast off like
neat rows of wool
knit tidy with needles.
Charley lingers at
the alley mouth, looking
this way and that,
slips the scalpel in his pocket,
steps sidewards on the street.

He counts on the lady with
the push chair to be
the one who
finds him there,
dead doctor with
no motive wrapped up
in his hair.

MURDER!, broad daylight,
what ought not be.
Charleyboy wants attention,
wants to be one watched by
the watchers again.
Done watching others he’s
watching his step
adjusting watch strap
watching traffic
watch him step up
to the front door
of the station, off to
hand himself in.

POINT FOUR:
Though it ends here,
be patient for the
patient sat across
from a doctor, a live one,
in a white room where
the third act begins.

Body count: 2. That we know of.

It’s not seamless, but. I found myself hanging on a wall today. Still, isn’t my rabbit pretty?

He knows he’s a looker.

I want to start thinking about the cover for Doors. I need to sit down with some paper, a marker pen and some bad ideas and a can of kerosene, to try to work something out. Something simple? Nothing busy. I’ll think of something. Alex, who is kindly proofreading that most sorriest of affairs, has a new book review blog, so do check it out. As for me, it’s back to the drawing board. And by drawing board I mean sofa.

I hope Rafa’s not emotionally bereft after losing the Australian Open final yesterday (I sure am). What a Herculean contest! He’ll bounce back…hopefully with both knees intact

Charleyboy’s Burning

When he wakes
the man sees he is done;
tied to a chair,
mouth stuffed with rags,
eyes gummy with heat.

Oh.
Oh, wait,
wait what
are you doing
with that?

Charleyboy watches the waking,
confusion and grog as it
mucks up his face.
What the man sees is Charleyboy standing
with fluid in one hand,
matchsticks in the other,
grin on his chops like the
mother of all maladies.
It is nightmarish, really; horrific.
The man wills himself back to sleep.

Charley wakes him by driving nails
into the tips of his fingers.

And across town a copper
watches a screen, ignores calls,
glazes over reports, thoughts linger
on a face he knows, fraught with suspicion.

The man in the chair bleeds,
is wet now, stinking of
petrol and defeat.

Charley brushes his black hair,
adjusts his new tie,
rolls up his sleeves,
checks his coat tails are neat,
spares one moment more
for the man he has trapped,
leaves the room for the landing,
the top of the stairs.

This house is a wreck;
empty for years,
Charley found it whilst rambling,
ambling through wooded wastes;
he kept it in mind
as the plan crept to life,
this grey kingdom rules over
so bleak a place.

When the copper stirs
on naught but a hunch
Charleyboy is downstairs,
dripping petrol behind,
heading to a front door
leading onto a circle of firs.

Outside is white,
thick blanket of snow,
Wastes wrapped in ice
where Charley will go.

Still got that matchstick;
breathing cold plumes, he
looks at the sky,
wonders if the man wakes
as his skin starts to prick.
And as Charley bends to
tie his laces, copper moves,
driving reckless through streets to a
long country lane where a
house sits, desperate, empty
for time, fears it now occupies
two faces, one missing, one wanted,
and he knows it is happening
so faster he races.

When Charley hits the first match
it is just past two,
sky heaving with night,
man upstairs struggling,
mind blurry with fright.
First match dies so
the boy tries another, and another
and at last
he gets one
to light.

Crackling, an agony
to hear, a torture
for the man at the top of
the stairs. He hears the fire
creeping closer to cook him,
taunted by peeling walls,
smoke swirling on the
legs of the chair.

Ah,
Charley smiles
as it goes up
in flames, sees his burning;
fire takes time to grow
and explode, it is learning
to blaze like a glory
it was born to be,
heat close to blistering,
Charley writing his histories
as he turns to leave.
Back hot from the house,
front cold from the snow,
and in the distance are sirens
coming near, so he goes.
Feet kicking up white,
striding into the fields,
passing between trees;
got his scarf pulled tight,
arms folded for warmth,
eyes on the floor,
his figure is slight.

The burning man does not scream,
he accepts; relents,
neglecting to fight,
regrets the life that
has brought him to this.

Copper’s coming with others
but too late, wheels screeching
as they fight round tight corners;

In the distance is smoke.

It’s that feeling of stubborn refusal
when you know you are fucked
but you still harbour hope.

In the trees, Charley’s heading for home,
spies a wolf at the cliff edge,
sanctuary in its eyes.
He don’t laugh, think or reason,
he flees from the scene and
meets the wolf with
his victory between them.

When he arrives, copper watches the wreck,
building burning, sizzle on the air.
What he smells is his breakfast
and he’s dirty with hunger,
embarrassed and exposed by the cold.

Footprints end in the firs,
from then on just scuff marks,
prints left by feral paws.
Teeth clattering, he makes for the cars
where the hounds wait,
officers shuffle next to
the shell of the house.
He sees shapes at the edge of the land,
squints but they’re gone,
and behind him the wreck is a husk.

Men picking over charred bits of bedlam,
body there somewhere,
though much is mixed with floorboards.
The copper laments,
ultimately accepts
that it happened and
his case loops again.

Charleyboy, out in the wild,
thinking of fire and winning,
of penning his own sticky end.
He runs to the nearest town,
emotions a labyrinth,
tricky question of
who he might drown.

Boy cooked a man,
medium-rare case of
cruelty, cooked tender with vex.
The papers don’t say who was burnt
for they can’t;
all that’s left
an unfortunate mess.

Yes, that’s my voice tickling your ears. Gotta love a bit of yam-yam, right? You can find the story, as well as a few other brief testimonials, in Fight the Sky. If you liked the audio, you can also download the complete audiobook - just name your price. :)

We talk politics, sometimes,
muse on the world.
She beats me at chess when
her hair’s set in curls and
if the lipstick is on,
nails dipped in black,
I know she’s all business
and means most emphatically
to win. La victoire,
the emperor of art,
parked her suitcase in my mind,
made her bed in my heart
and her roots go deep,
all talons and spurs;
she might do me wrong
if it’s what’s best for her.

I’ll drape her in pearls,
feed her oats from a spoon,
smile sweetly, speak furies
when she leaves the room.
She haunts me with vacancy,
her staring wet eyes;
try to act like I don’t mind,
lacing biscuits with lies that
I’ll feed her by hand
before she’s tucked in at night,
kiss her brow, squeeze her fingers,
wish her bright dreams and right then
she smiles, ever so sweet,
so I always smile back.

I’m wishing her sufferance
and she knows I wish bad.

She wouldn’t be here
if I was not what I am;
Tristesse, pale seductress,
playing tricks with the tears;
a mad mistress, my Sadness,
sleeps on a quilt stitched from years
that we spend together,
her and I, a future to share.

My eyes drift over corners,
and always, she is there.

End as you mean to go on. Or should that be start? We’re on the edge of 2011, staring down the barrel of 2012. I’m wrapping up this mad, tangled year with a cup of tea and a seat by the fire, basking in the glow of twenty-one successful eBay listings and the wonderful news that one of my poems has been published in the latest issue of Railroad. It’s a good way to wrap up 2011, and before I look ahead I would like to look back at everything else that’s occurred.

2011 was the year I…

…left the country.

At the end of February, after months of planning, I quit my job in the bookshop and travelled across the United States. They were the best weeks of my life. I cannot understate my gratitude and love for the people I met, the friends I made, lessons learned and experiences enjoyed. I wish I could do it all again only this time without it ending. Relive my USA adventure: here, here , here and here.

…recorded an audiobook.

Marley is probably the hardest working person I know. He keeps an eye on us unruly artists with his production company, Naplew Productions, and seems to have an endless supply of creative projects and brilliant ideas. I love him and loved working with him on the Fight the Sky audiobook, the making of which almost killed me, but I do adore the end result. Have you downloaded it yet? Have you laughed at my pitiful croaking towards the end?

…released Revolve.

2010 was all about my short stories collection. This year I released a second book under the Painting Lies imprint, a poetry collection called Revolve. It collects together pieces from 2004, right up to my return from America at the start of this year. I’m proud of it. Poetry is personal and it can be daunting to “get it out there” and into people’s hands, but I’ve managed it with this little book. I was also thrilled that the GoodReads promotional giveaway attracted over 700 entries from around the world. Still waiting on that first Amazon review, though…

…lived in a tent.

Between May and mid-October I lived in a tent in The Netherlands, working for a holiday company. I did this because I wanted to try something new, and also because I wanted the experience of working abroad. It was testing and an emotional drain at times, but I’m glad I did it. I met some wonderful people, got really into baking and fell head over heels in love with Holland. It’s best summed up by the poem I wrote, All Roads Lead To Duinhell.

…made a comeback.

After moving back to England, I went back from whence I came (for a short time, at least). I got a temporary position at the bookshop again. I sold a few books, found a few familiar, friendly faces, and slipped back into the routine of Wake, Work, Curse The Rail Service, Repeat.

…finished a novel.

I started writing a story, Doors, in May 2010, after Fight the Sky was published. I took it seriously then and still do now. On New Year’s Eve 2010 I completed the first draft, and have spent all of 2011 re-drafting and crafting it into something nigh on presentable. I’m happy with it and plan to publish it in the summer, if all goes to plan…

…started a new novel.

In November I set my heart on a follow-up to Doors. This will conclude the overall story, and kiss goodbye to another chapter of my life. For now, I’m calling this second novel Flipside. It’s still early days but it’s good to have that first draft creativity flowing again.

…lived alone.

Two days after returning from Holland, I moved into my own place. I’m in love with the solitude and can’t complain for all the space and opportunity I have to write, which is really all I’ve ever wanted to do. I know I can’t keep it forever, so I’m going to enjoy Solo Life while it lasts, and get as much out of it as possible. The day will come when I have to force my infurirating habits and obsessive behaviours on other human beings again, so we all might as well enjoy the peace for the time being.

…walked away.

There have been no specific confrontations, but I’ve walked away from many situations this year. I have no interest in struggling over things, or fretting, or worrying who or what or when I’ve caused an upset. At the beginning of 2011 I decided to Just Roll With It, and it’s a philosophy I can see myself sticking with. No arguments, no unnecessary emotion, no chasing after people or letting myself get hurt. Just pick yourself up and get on with it. Walk away if you have to. And if you can mend it later, try.

2012 is the year I will…

…try veganism.

I’ve been harking on about this for a few years now, and this time I mean to try. Since moving back to England I’ve been gradually removing dairy from my diet, and I think I’ll do okay. I can give this a decent chance. If It doesn’t work for me, I’ll be able to say I gave it serious effort. Here goes nothin’.

…publish a(nother) book.

Doors is coming. I want the second half ready by the end of the year. Push push push yourself apply apply apply and make somebody take notice.

…spread the word rather thin.

I will enter writing competitions (even the ones there is no hope of winning), I will find a writing group, I will talk to more writers, I will Get Myself Out There, I will try and I will believe. I will be nice. And most importantly, I will enjoy.

…study.

There’s a small plan forming, involving a course in the spring, and if all goes well, another in the summer. I don’t know what will come of it so I’m saying nothing more for now, in case it never happens. But I know self-improvement is an on going, wondrous thing that doesn’t come easy, so I’m taking steps over the next twelve months to progress myself further. There is always something you can be better at.

I’m looking forward to reading everybody’s hopes and resolutions for the New Year. I hope everybody enters it happy and achieves what they set out to. And hey, if the world’s still around at the close, maybe we can have this conversation again.

Here are a few overused and meaningless words I despise:

~*Fabulous*~
Festive
Fresh
Free
Fierce

Why do they all begin with F? It makes my blood boil that anything remotely feminine deemed worthy for advertisement is either fabulous or glamorous or drowning in sequins. Festive is so liberally applied to anything within five metres of a string of tinsel that it now looks wrong when applied to any other occasion, such as Hallowe’en or Easter. There is so much emphasis on food being quality and fresh when really, there is nothing fresh about Subway. The salad comes out of a bag. There ain’t nothin’ fresh about Greggs sausage rolls or pizza slices from Ditsch or pretzels or donuts or milkshakes. Stop cramming such processed twice-digested rubbish down my throat – I know what it is, it is junk! And free? Don’t make me choke. If everything claiming to be interest free or free for the first year or available now with a free digital copy or 100% extra free was actually all it was cracked up to be, we’d all be living extravagant lives without spending a dime. It’s only free if I sign my income away for the next five years or consent to buying a box three times the size I usually do or immerse myself in an embarrassing amount of debt to a company of loan sharks interested only in finishing me off. See what I did there? FINishing me off? WOW YES. What a fierce thing to say. I am actually growling ferociously as I type this, fingernails filed down to points, my remaining teeth grinding against each other in a maddened mash of filling. I mean feeling. If that doesn’t get you cavitating, I don’t know what will.

There are underused words out there deserving of love. Ones beginning with F, such as FROLIC and FRENZY and FASTIDIOUS. I am also partial to the occasional utterance of FARCICAL, which sums up the mood.

It’s been lovely to have the rabbits around for Christmas. They don’t live with me so I see them when I go to my mum’s, which isn’t all that often. Christmas has been the perfect excuse to hassle them and stuff myself with good food at the same time. I have heard all about their most recent bad behaviours – Jaster helping himself to an apple, covering himself in sawdust, playing dead on the new upstairs landing carpet and thus transforming himself into an unavoidable tripping hazard, sitting in a wheelbarrow with Chip and refusing to budge, looking like lords of their own sad little kingdom of grass cuttings. Oh, to be a rabbit without rule or reason.

I didn’t sleep well on Christmas Eve. I wish I could say it was down to excitement. I think six days of book-related retail mania at work killed off bits of my soul. I got up at sevenish on Christmas Day and unwrapped a few books, mugs and bits of baking paraphenalia which I will happily put to use in the New Year. Sue and Jack did likewise; I haven’t seen much of the latter, probably owing to the fact that he now has Uncharted 3 to distract himself with. Not the kind of game you ignore!

We prepared dinner at my flat – I quickly made a round of shortbread to take back with us (YES IT WAS FRESH), and Sue started on the creme brulée. After returning to my mum’s I got started on my lovely hardback edition of Wuthering Heights and finally watched the first two episodes of Game of Thrones. Jaime doesn’t look like Jaime, I don’t like the actress playing Cersei, Jon Snow and Robb Stark look far too old, Daenarys is annoying, the direwolves are too cute, Cat has no majesty about her…but Arya is spot on, Viserys is perfect, Sean Bean is Sean Bean is The Best. So it let me down and spurred me on to pre-order the boxset, all in the space of two hours and an overdose of lengthy commercial breaks. What an emotional whirlwind.

Today we ventured into town for a walk…there were too many sale-faced bag-wielding nutters about for my liking. Sue managed to lose her bank card, and I found a nice green cardigan in Topshop to go with all my other nice green cardigans I coo over and never wear. Useful. Now I’m strapped to the settee once again, ready to watch The Borrowers with hot drink in hand and an empty head. I’m not ready for work tomorrow, but I don’t suppose any of us are ready for work. Work is something that follows you down dark alleys and looks over your shoulder when you’re desperate for privacy. Work is a life-long Nosy Parker you can only deter with carefully acquired Impossible Wealth, or a fortunate yet non-fatal injury resulting in Accidental Yet Still Welcome Impossible Wealth. How fabulous.

Burnt Sugar

Ripped paper in the morning,
burnt the sugar just past four -
now I’m sprawling, warm and yawning
thinkin there aint nothin more
I could ask of Now, this day.
Disconnected by choice,
waking only to say I am
rested, I declare myself bested by
all the festivities, the
collected best restive
you requested of me.
I have switched off the phone and
the box remains black,
finished dinner then dessert, said
Good Day to the jack of all trades
what’s gone his own Christmas Way.
The woman here is peaceful,
sits still for a change.
Watchin lights nest in branches,
knowing now it is strange to
chop trees then dress them up in this way.
Tradition I bow to ‘cos it don’t hurt and
I care not for disruption today.
I ask only to be left on my own
for this minute, the moment
containing me in it, it takes all
my restraint not to say nothin.
It feels good just to know I’m not running
for a change. Tomorrow we can stir again,
ready for a new year
what’s winging our way.
But today I aint movin or kicking,
just lickin warm custard from my spoon,
passing time without purpose,
goin nowhere
in the very best way.

25.12.2011

Centuries, my love.

Centuries have been
but strength remains,
power lives in all he says
and said to me,
in musty books now read to me.
History, you see,
it is yours.
If he can see, if he can know
the effects endured,
given gifts of handsome words,
studied yet not understood.

(Poetry is personal,
each line a heart measured
in beating blood -
to know its meaning,
a stranger’s eye never could)

In my time he is mystery,
and all the rest, the Cockney School,
minds to covet,
lines and letters pooling
into thought, a mingled web
of feeling.
Paths to drift down idly,
each reading brings new roads to me;
all of them meet the same end.

You were above your station, sir -
to be there as you played at work
would be an honour
that leaves me lost for

I hereby bring to an end the brief but painful episode in my life known as TOOTHSAGA. The damn thing’s out. The experience, on the whole, was ghastly. Needless to say I shouldn’t have gone into work, but money is an unfortunate necessity, so I did. I’m not saying it was my finest moment; I could hardly speak and definitely couldn’t smile. Move along, people. Nothing to see here. Just a toothless fool making a spectacle of herself.

Doors, the novel I’ve been working on since May of last year, is finished and currently taking up a lot of space on my desk:

I’ve got six printed copies, two of which will be bound for reading. The rest will be sent off, perhaps in pieces, to various other desks across the land. First I’ve got to get a few inserts and illustrated pages photocopied at the library:

Because I can’t sit still for five minutes and neither can my mind, I’m already getting started on what comes next. Doors reached a natural end in my mind but it was by no means where the overall plot ended, so I’ve decided to continue the story in a second novel, which for now I’m calling Flipside. It’s early days, those lovely creative spurts which make a rough draft still slow to start, but it’s good to write something new. Even though it’s not new at all; same characters, same story, just a bit less whisky. I don’t know yet if, should I indeed go down the Painting Lies publication route, I’ll want to publish both stories together or keep them as separate volumes. I’ll probably go for the two-book option. Why am I even considering this right now? This constant need to race ahead is knackering, Kent, stop it.

What should I think about instead? Christmas.

I’m not decorating because I can’t afford to, but I’ve got most of the shopping done (which is good because I hate the Christmas hordes) and started wrapping things in ribbon.

The plan this year is simple. I’m working for six days straight in the run up to Christmas, and after I’m done on Christmas Eve, I’m taking the bus to my mum’s house to chill with the bunnies and sleep. Then, on Christmas Day and after the torrent of paper has subsided, we’ll be journeying back to my place to cook dinner and enjoy specially baked festive shortbread and delicious mince pies (the baking schedule is nice and full, actually – the aforementioned, plus a top secret recipe for Sue’s birthday on the 22nd and a Caribbean Christmas cake). Then, back to mum’s to watch The Borrowers, Muppets Christmas Carol, etc. All the good stuff. I’ve got Boxing Day to lounge around and read, then it’s back to work on the 27th, and time for me to start cooking up a plan for next year. I think I still need to fully digest 2011 first. But I already have prospects, possibilities, inklings of ideas…

…and cake. There will always be cake.

I’ve also completed my GoodReads Reading Challenge for this year. I wanted to fit in fifty books this year, which I managed. This is despite me living like a nomad in a tent for five months. I’m surprised I didn’t forget how to read and revert to a more primitive point in evolution.

I might push for sixty books next year, or settle for forty. Or maybe I should put the damn books down and go outside, find myself a few friends? Altogether now…

…NAH!

She’s here on a Sunday
with mother in tow,
red ribbon in her hair
matching the velvet skirts
and sleeves, tears in her eyes
because she knows what she’ll find
when she arrives at the last but one row.

Grandfather died of dysentery
at the end of
last century
and she cried when she
said to me
it was no end for
a hero.

“Granddaddy was grand and
a man who was always
best to me, the best in
the land.” I took her hand
in my hand and said darling,
maybe angels who, marrying,
chose the very best man.

I watch her from the window
on a train passing over
near Penkridge, but she doesn’t see me.
She skips over leaves, twigs
and other debris
as she crosses the cemetery
to where Wilfred waits patiently.

And he will wait for her always
unlike other men to come
who’ll break her into pieces
for the sport and the fun
of it, she will be game
for bad hearts, and she’ll miss
all the parts
that were easy
and painless.

She’ll miss grandfather
sucking on toffee, saying
she was his favourite
kind of sweet in
the world.
She thought she’d be bigger one day,
big enough to say she’s not sugar,
a sour soul growing older.
But now she is seven
and she misses him, so
she stays sweet hoping
it gets her to heaven.

Maisy, you’re precious,
aching to run
back to somewhere
you haven’t yet been.
Mother’s watching you
seek out the gravestone
where dad lies
thinking of all
the short days
she has seen.

But she forgets now
the mind of a child,
inner trappings
of missing so badly
one wild with stories of
gunfire and shrapnel,
stories he told well, of
Winnie and sewing she did
every Tuesday.

Maisy gets bigger,
grows wise every day.
She wants to know Winnie
and Wilfred again
so she keeps them alive
in her head.

Maisy runs through a
graveyard near Penkridge
in her very best dress
on a Sunday and I watch her
from my seat on the train.
She doesn’t know I can see
all she’ll eventually be,
hopes knotted in a ribbon
turning dark with the rain.

…Can’t sleep, can (attempt to) write. I got confirmation yesterday that copies of Revolve and Fight the Sky made it to Sweden for entry in an independent book award, being judged this winter. As usual I’m not expecting anything, but it’s all part of the plan to start getting my stuff out there, so I can get over the need to cringe and die inside when I realise people are actually reading it. It’s not something I’m used to, you understand, having given away so many books and never hearing anything back about them. I’ve also got an envelope to post to a man at a desk somewhere. Maybe there’s a manuscript inside.