[Intro — low, close, dry] I have sent the book. This means, apparently, I must now do nothing. An outrageous system. [Verse 1] The manuscript has left the building. Very brave. Very calm. I remain beside the kettle with a tremor in my palm. Somewhere now an editor may be reading page seventeen. Or having lunch. Or losing interest. Or simply being unseen. I check the mail. I check again. I demonstrate restraint. Then wait a full three minutes and become a minor saint. [Pre-Chorus] There should be work for waiting. A lever. A bell. A chair. Some useful little mechanism for repairing empty air. [Chorus] I am languishing in anticipation. A beautiful phrase for a terrible occupation. I have finished the book. I have sent it away. And now I must survive another perfectly normal day. So make me tea. Find me comedy. Hide the inbox from my sight. Or give me one new title and I’ll write another book tonight. [Verse 2] Perhaps I need a proper hobby. Something healthy. Something wise. I could walk. I could breathe. I could study cloudy skies. I could watch a splendid comedy and laugh until I mend. But halfway through the clever joke I’ll wonder: did they send? So perhaps I need another story. Not a novel. Not just yet. Only something small and dangerous I have not imagined yet. A title. That would do nicely. Titles open secret doors. Give me three words and suddenly I’m building seventeen floors. [Pre-Chorus] The cure for waiting may be making. The cure for silence may be sound. If one book has left my hands, perhaps another is coming round. [Chorus] I am languishing in anticipation. A beautiful phrase for a terrible occupation. I have finished the book. I have sent it away. And now I must survive another perfectly normal day. So make me tea. Find me comedy. Hide the inbox from my sight. Or give me one new title and I’ll write another book tonight. [Bridge — spoken-sung, ticking groove] Here is the trouble. When you write, you are God. A very tired God, but still. You move the chairs. You change the weather. You decide who enters the room. Then you send the manuscript away and become a civilian. Suddenly, somebody else has the weather. This is intolerable. Tea. Immediately. [Verse 3] Maybe joy is in the waiting if one waits with proper style. Put good music on the speakers. Let the dog inspect the pile. Call a friend. Cook something foolish. Read a book you did not write. Take one evening off from meaning. Let the world remain all right. And if tomorrow brings no answer, let tomorrow have its fun. A silence is not a verdict. It is only nothing done. Meanwhile, there are other doors. Other pages. Other crimes. And somewhere there is a title waiting patiently for me to ruin several nights. [Final Chorus — bigger, relieved] I am languishing in anticipation. Still a beautiful phrase for a terrible occupation. The book has gone out. Let it find its own way. I cannot pull the future closer by refreshing it all day. So make me tea. Find me comedy. Let the unanswered inbox wait. Give me one absurd idea before it gets too late. I have finished one book. Good. Let somebody else decide. I have another empty page and all the trouble still inside. [Outro — low, amused] I have sent the book. This means, apparently, I must now do nothing. No. I don’t think I’m built for that.
