Poets should not write novels.

  It is not like anyone has made it a law yet; it is simply the surprise that meet the utterance, should a poet volunteer information that she has just completed a novel. In a way, there’s almost something licentious in her revelation and in some quarters, Janus-faced. It’s almost like having more than one lover. But then having more than one lover and keeping them would mean a level of mental and demonstrative dexterity.

By now, you know the said poet is my humble self (It is the only title I’ve ever really given myself, pardon the show-off).  There’s a bit of introspection that bring into bits the sole intent of why one ever set out to write in the first place.

In interviews, there’s much easier formulation based on the journalist’s question some abruptly intelligent sounding statement may come to fore, or even one that may label one as a fluke. There are no rules to this question types; maybe a little pondering over and over and over, and a constant reminder that it’s the most meaningless reason to hang my life on. But in truth, I have never tried to explore the question, other than times when I need to check that the word ‘principle’ still exists in my vocabulary. (It is not a tidy world today. I am sure you’ll agree).

But to keep a fair share of the question answered, I will say I do not know when I began to write, for it is a long time now, but I know something I have always wished to do is write as well as I imagine. And in any case, poetry remains for me the closest textual/graphic image to achieving that and even now as I complete my novel, I am looking desperately for a way to connect it to poetry. But you don’t force these things; it is not exactly difficult to see from Lola Shoneyin's debut as a novelist that she is a poet. (So?)

Now, with a novel off my hand, and still struggling to raise money for research of a poetry narrative I am working on, I look at November and I can say, bring it on 2011.  It is a month to go and it still seems too soon to say that anyway.