Birth of a New Novel, 2025: a prose poem

Today is my pub day. I wrote a poem for the occasion.

Birth of a New Novel, 2025

Embarrassing to admit: I don’t remember your conception. I was going through some things at the time, was almost 30. I drank too often, was still blaming others for my own mistakes. I was reading and consorting with a lot of different books, and some bookish magazines, even. I was lonely, and some things happened.

Which I’m afraid makes it sound as if you were unplanned, unwanted, an accident—but this isn’t true! Never, ever have I planned anything so meticulously; never, ever have I wanted anything like I’ve wanted you! I spent nights, weekends, early-mornings and full afternoons. I stole time, skipped opportunities and obligations. I thought about you as I walked, as I worked, as I drifted off to sleep. As I should have been paying more attention to people in my life.

Carrying you wasn’t easy. The first few years, especially, were hard. I didn’t know what I was doing, and had to work to pay rent, buy food, pay down debts. I lived in a relatively rural place. I didn’t know any other people who were carrying books. There weren’t support groups for us.

But, hard as it was, you also made it easy! If I had been empty before, you filled me up. You brought me meaning and direction, and as time went by I began to feel substantial, full of not only you, but hope. Sometimes you made me giddy.

Seven years ago, I imagined you were near-ready: that I and the world might see you soon. But this didn’t come to pass. There were complications. I got turned around. You got turned around. This was my fault.

I became confused about your identity. It seemed you might be too big, and there was the pressing concern my birthing you would require a partner—a partner I could not find. I tried, by force of will, to change you—to make you ‘accessible,’ ‘acceptable,’ more brief, better suited to modern tastes. Like a stupid high school kid, I turned my back on you—and myself—tried to flirt with popularity. To the detriment of us both.

Believe it or not, I’m glad this happened.

I made you, tested you, tried you, remade you, and made you again. Made you for myself, made you for others, made you for you.

And you’re ready now.

You won’t be birthed with the assistance of a ‘house,’ and it seems unlikely that teenage girls will scream or dance about you on TikTok. The shamanistic woman-leaders of the book-reading public will not likely recommend you to their followings.

But you won’t be unhoused, you will be cheered, and you won’t be unloved. People will recommend you. Of these, I will be the first and most emphatic.

Novel: understand that you are different, but this is what makes you special. You aren’t here to chase fads, pander, or appease. Born of hard times and inspiration, you are both important and meaningful—you will inspire.

A question I have worried over for the past several years, which I now absolve you of worrying over: if a book is born in 2025 and its author can’t make enough noise for anyone to notice, does it even matter? You do! You matter! Finding your people will require patience and faith, but will happen.

A few last words.

About your gestation and birth: You may wonder, when you’re older, “Am I? Was I? AI?” The answer, my dear book, is no. The tools came available, and I chose not to use them. I composed you myself, by hand, transcribed you to a computer, and consulted with human editors, artists, and designers. I made use of word processors, print on demand, and social media to get the word out, sure, but AI for the sake of your composition, no.

Above all else, I want you to know that, though some people—many—might not get you, you are smart, and we live in a country where to be smart is to be reviled—or at least looked upon with suspicion. This is a cross you will have to bear. Fear not the weight of this cross: your foundations in thought and your structure are sound.   

Novel: I love you, and I’m letting you go.

Your author,

Peter

Why Teach? is now available in paperback and e-reader editions from Bookshop.org, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Kindle Store, and Kobo. If you haven’t picked up a copy yet, I hope you’ll do so—it offers keen insight into what life as a young teacher was like during NCLB, and it boasts a moving plot. Positive Substack book reviews are available from Scott Spires’s The Lakefront Review of Books and Isaac Kolding’s Amateur Criticism.

If you enjoyed the poem above, you may enjoy my teacherly short stories “Cheaters” and “The Troubles of Mariel Clement,” or my bookish poem “Forests, Trees.”