I just got an email from Lulu.com: "Creating a Great Book Cover Has Never Been Easier!"
OKAY LULU I CAN TAKE THE HINT.
The cover was done (I chose the tan and olive but intensified the shading a bit; we'll see how that works) and the proof has been done for a few days, so I uploaded them and finalised the proof and had them ship me one and then went to the bathroom and threw up.
It's stupid really because it's just a self-published book, but I wrote it at a time when I was slowly going insane and I've worked hard on it. I sent it all over and rewrote it and gave it to friends to read and then rewrote it again and gave it to everyone to edit and rewrote it two more times and now the first copy is on its way. Eight days, ten at the outside, I'll have a thing I made in my hands. No mask I ever made took four and a half years
When I finished The Dead Isle it was a total shock, because I wrote the ending and then said to myself, "Okay, what scene do I write next?" and there were no more scenes to write. Apparently when I finish stuff I get musical, which I am not really at any other time, but I had to hear "We Have Fed Our Seas" because it was in my head for some reason. This time the finishing wasn't such a shock because it had been done for a long time, sort of -- the fabric was all there, anyway. So uploading it was this nerve-wracking "Oh god what did I forget" process, and hopefully I haven't forgotten anything. But I did have The Old Churchyard in my head, so I put that on, and that calmed me down a little.
Turns out I'm a high-strung artist after all. Who knew?
Anyway, have some poems for the evening. The Old Church Yard
O come, come with me to the old church yard
We well know the path through the soft green sward
Friends slumber there we were wont to regard
We'll trace out their names in the old church yard( Oh mourn not for them, their grief is o'er... )
***We Have Fed Our Seas
by Rudyard Kipling, this arrangement by Peter Bellamy/David Jones
We have fed our seas for a thousand years
And it calls us still unfed
Though there's never a wave of all her waves
But marks our English dead
We have strawed our best to the sea's unrest
To the shark and the sheering gull
And if blood be the price of admiralty
Lord God, we ha' paid in full( There is never a tide that moves shoreward now... )