My novel

 

The rough draft of my novel sits on a low
bookcase, open to chapter one of thirty-two,
yearning for attention.  It’s been “finished,”
for many years, waiting only for atmosphere,
inner monologue, and backstory—details.
 
How excited I was ten years ago when the story
came spilling out of me.  In a resident artist
grant, in a setting of forest and good food,
it was a waterfall of memory turned to fiction,
names changed to protect the unaware.
 
Outlined on a wall in the retreat center, scenes
emerged out of order, and fit easily into their
rightful place. Like in a stream, the bedrock
was visible. Like a tree, it grew from bark—
its cambium—to a very strong core.
 
Now this heartwood skeleton is weak.
It’s waited too long, starved for attention
and intention.  The outer bark holds its
shape, but I no longer create the alone
time required for it to flow and grow.
 
Retirement community provides good
company and activities, from a Good
Trouble Group to a Writers Circle. 
The novel sits here and accuses me.
I’ll pack it away until I need it again.

For Sherry's prompt "Ten Years Later" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

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© 2026 Susan L. Chast