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256 pages, Hardcover
Expected publication February 17, 2026
He reads the Booker Prize shortlist every year and I feel like a fraud. He is earnest. He wants my opinion on this year’s winner. He loved it. He could see why other people didn’t. I tell him I haven’t read it. That I’m catching up on my reading pile. I know that feeling he says. He tells me he read my first novel. This never happens. We talk about authorial intent and experimental structures and unlikeable protagonists and I quietly realise he is not talking about my book at all. After a while he realises too. We don’t say anything. We politely finish the discussion and he turns away to talk to Tom. But of course says Jen as she drains her wine glass. You must write about her. For a second I am caught frozen in her words and I think I can’t And I am pulled under with panic and horror at the thought of shaping that And then the waves crash around us again and I understand. Yes I think. I could try that, couldn’t I?
There is old life
and new death
in this soft dark
now
stories
and soil
change
and stay
the same
moment
to moment
The shift of water and the swell of water under sunlight
and oh
the echo of
a small hand
that small hand
in mine
holding
tight
in this moment
in all moments
the earth move
still
You know what Stephen King says? says Hugo and I brace myself. Stories are artefacts. Found things, like fossils in the ground. Relics. Part of an undiscovered, pre-existing world. I might have got that a bit wrong. I can always remember part of something, never the whole. It’s a cu