A Book for a Meal?

 

 

In what looks suspiciously like a carefully curated corner of chaos on my desk, the proof copy of my latest book rests, casually, with a series of post-it stickers jutting out from the side indicated pages on which I have found infelicities in the printed presentation.  The fact that there are only seven instances where I have found the spacing, print, illustration, font, type to be lacking suggests that I have missed a great number more that will later come to haunt me lurking on the 500+ pages that I have 'edited'.

Having duly sent off my 'corrections' to the printers, I sat back and waited for the presses to run and deliver my quota of books to Catalonia.  Of course, as soon as the 'corrected' books arrived I discovered a fault that I had missed, but I trust it is one that others will miss too.

There is a certain type of word blindness in an author looking through his work for the umpteenth time, where sometimes glaring typos go unnoticed even after scrutiny that has to have noticed the fault.  there is also a major difference between proof reading something and 'reading' it.  Too often I am caught up in my writing to catch some errors - and that is not an example of arrogance, it would be a sad author indeed who did not 'go with flow' of what he has written and find pleasure in those phrases where he can hardly believe that he actually wrote them!

So, good, bad, or indifferent The Book is done, and done in good time for the official 'publication' date of the 24th of October.  That date had to be brought forward to the 3rd of October to allow The Book to be given to the atendees at the Indian Buffet taking place in Cardiff in celebration of my birthday, in Cardiff because of the difficulty for some of the atendeeds getting to Catalonia for the day itself.

Before those celebratory days in Cardiff and Catalonia, I am luxuriating in that golden period between when a book is printed and when it is published and others get to see it.  In that literary lull before profane eyes rake the pages, there is a tranquility composed of satisfaction at a writing task done, and the complacent anticipation of commendation.

That tranquility is, of course, short lived because no matter how cynical a writer may feel himself to be, the first comments (unless they be of untrammeled praise) cut into the beating heart of fainting confidence!  There is no hypocrisy like criticism serenely accepted.

New book. New readers?

I have never let the obvious subject matter, stand in the way of my writing something.  I am a great believer in the thought that, if you are sincere in wanting to write then something (anything) will suggest itself as a subject worthy of words.

     This time, for this entry, I do actually have something to say.  (And as someone who cares about writing, I couldn’t help notice that I have overused the word “something” in the last couple of sentences.  Noticed?  Yes.  Going to do something (ha!) about it?  No.

     So, to The Matter of Import!  I have written (another) book.  The last effort was a ‘chapbook’, which is more of a glorified pamphlet, but my latest effusion is a real book.  You can tell it’s a real book because it has a spine, and it is wide enough for the logo of Praetorius Books to be printed thereupon.

     Called, “Caught in the Conceit” the book is the latest in the series of books and chapbooks that I have produced during Holy Week over the last ten years.

     I started writing the poems because (ten years ago) I hadn’t realised that the Sunday on which I was having my post-swim cup of tea was actually Palm Sunday.  There was nothing to differentiate it for any other Sunday.  No sense of special, no sense that this was the Sunday before Holy Week, leading up to the most important celebration in the Christian Church of Easter Sunday.  It was the sense of ordinariness, the complete lack of otherness, that struck me.  How far, I seemed to ask myself, had we travelled/progressed/declined so that what was once an important part of the year (let alone the Church Year) was so casually ignored.

     The first poem in the first edition of Poems in Holy Week (“Clocks of Dust”) did reference the lack of appreciation of the significance of the day, but always at the back of my mind was the thought that this was not just about Christianity but was rather about how attitudes to what was once thought of as an essential and defining part of the year had declined into ‘just part of the weekend’.

     Things change.  Even institutions and concepts that have seemed to be set in stone (thinking about it, that could be literally true) are coming loose or crumbling.  The only certainties we are left with are “Death and Taxes”!

     As an atheist I did not feel myself to be bound to an overtly Christian theme, even though the poems were written in what used to be an overtly Christian time of the year.  The subject matter ranged far and wide, but that was not a deliberate rejection on my part.  I might be atheist but, as I have said too often to people who don’t really care, but I am an Anglican atheist! 

     As someone who was brought up (by my mother) as a Christian and (by my father) as a Humanist, and as someone who regularly went to church for the best part of thirty years of his life, I am imbued with the ‘trapping’ of the Church: its liturgy, its ceremonies, its architecture, its music, its art, its theology, and most importantly, its words.  I have no intention of repudiating such elements that have played their part in making me the person I am today and I regard myself as interested but uninvolved in religion.

     The writing of those first eight (sometimes more) poems (I take Holy Week to extend from Palm Sunday to Easter Day) gave me real satisfaction, and I resolved to repeat the process the following year.  Which I did, and then carried on.  For example, as well as the poems that I have written for each day this year during Holy Week, I have also written a handful of haiku to accompany each day as well.  Each volume is slightly different from the one that went before.

     For the Anniversary Edition of Poems in Holy Week 2024, I decided to add a section which looked back on the almost 100 poems that I had written over the years, and to make a personal selection of poems and prose from the various introductions to the chapbooks I had written.

     So, that is what “Caught in the Conceit” is, this year’s poems and a selection from the last decade.

     The volume is illustrated in a variety of ways, ranging from the garabatos (that I regard as a form of graphic meditation) to use of AI to give some sort of visual form to my wordy instructions in the programs that I have used.  There are also treated photographs and a touch of graphic design!

     At the moment the book is with the printer, and I am enjoying that indefinable moment of something like lazy satisfaction, between the work having been completed and holding the finished volume in my hands.  Then the real work starts of getting information out about the book and getting people to buy it!

     It is possible to leave a message on this blog if you want to reserve a copy of Caught in the Conceit.  There are a limited number of copies, and they are available only from the author, myself.

     Book details: Full colour cover, 172 pages, including this year’s Poems in Holy Week, together with selection of poems from past editions, short prose and poetry extracts, garabatos, photographs, illustrations, and a brief introductory essay.  Each copy of Caught in the Conceit comes with its own unique bookmark!

     I should have the books printed and in my hands in the next week or so and then I will look forward to the next stage in the books development when eyes other than my own read through and pass judgement!

 

As a sort of freebie to encourage good thoughts about Caught in the Conceit, the following QR Code will take you to a copy of my last chapbook, "A sight too much?"  Use your mobile phone to scan and you should be taken to a site where you can download the file and read my last series of poems.

Enjoy!

Scan me!