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Why didn’t I see it, there was writing on the wall
I walked right past it, just like a fool
If only I had stopped, and looked behind the page
It could have been me that opened her cage

You never asked for much, just a little of my time
But I took it for granted, it was just a pastime
I looked just to humour you, with and a patronising smile
The wife and the writer, I couldn’t reconcile

As I look through the boxes that contain your life
It’s hard to believe that you were my wife
It should have been you and not me on the stage
Now these eyes are damned by the lines on a page

Now I’ve nothing but time and her boxes by my side
I am moved to distraction and torn by my pride
Why didn’t I see, the gift that she had?
I know she forgive me but that just makes me more sad


Most of us, at some time in our lives, have thought we would like to write a book. Most will never put pen to paper, and some will start but not finish when they realise how hard it is. Of those that do finish their first novel, the chances of being published are very low, and minuscule if they have no qualifications, so most will give up writing.

There are some (though very few) who, to quote Somerset Maughan, “Don’t write because they want to write, they write because they have to write.” They continue to write, even when there is no hope of ever being published. It is undeniable that amongst those people, there will be some that have written great books and even the occasional masterpiece. The world is full of boxes containing unpublished books.