OF BOOKS AND BABIES
The above might well be a sculpture of Zeus cradling his son Dionysus. Or it might be me cradling my new novel. Grandiose? You bet I’m grandiose. But it’s the grandiosity of fear - a parent’s dread that the new arrival (only four weeks away now) won’t fulfil its expectations, won’t live up to its billing, won’t be a prodigy, won’t change the world.
Dionysus was no disappointment. He got the Greeks drinking and dancing. But his parents must have been anxious 8 months into confinement, not knowing how he would turn out. Me too. Will my new novel set the Western world on a wild new course?
Oh, the fears that shake my frame! What if my baby lies inert in its cot, blowing bubbles of inanity, soiling itself from morning to night, and ends up among the unwanted debris of a car-boot sale. Parenthood might have its alarms, but they are as nothing compared to the terrors of authorship…
Read on. I mean what I am about to say to be of help to all authors, experienced or otherwise. Forgive me if it breaks your heart along the way . . .
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