Conference as Distraction by Jon Platten
Jon Platten, the newest member of Resolute Books, wrote this poignant post reflecting on both our recent conference and the news he was processing at the time. Look out for his upcoming book of poetry, which will be published with Resolute soon.
Conference as Distraction
Years ago, a friend and I walked into a rural pub just outside the town in North Norfolk where we lived. Everyone stopped talking and stared at us. It was just like that as I entered the bar of the hotel where the Resolute Books authors were conferencing and a friend waved from the far end of the bar, saying, ‘Hello Jon.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ I burbled, or something like that, as I scrambled my way to the bar for the Dutch courage required by an introvert to handle the new-boy-at-school scenario.
Earlier that day I had been waiting on a phone call. Having had my prostate removed last year after a cancer diagnosis, I have had regular blood tests to check that the disease has not returned. Each time, the results have come back undetectable. This time, I’d rung three different numbers a total of six times over two days but never got more than an answerphone message. Half an hour before I was due to head to Leamington Spa, someone unexpected got back to me and told me what I did not want to hear. The cancer is no longer undetectable.
The conference almost distracted me with its mix of business and writerly input. The room, with its conference stationery, coffee on tap and mini packets of biscuits, was familiar to me from when I had a real job, if being the principal of a secondary school counts as that. There was an informative and at times hilarious role-play demonstrating how to set up a bookstall. This prompted me to share some lines from a poem I’d written to process my own experience of selling my poetry collection at a Christmas fair:
You’ve made a beeline to my table,
A first sale appears to be on the radar.
I lean forward to look more affable.
Can you tell me where the toilets are?
I don’t know how I stay so courteous.
Three hours in, it’s beginning to drag.
But someone’s looking curious.
I’m sorry, I haven’t brought my bag.
I should have stayed at home in the warm,
This day has just brought woe to me.
The latest non-customer says the worst in bad form:
I’ve never seen the point of poetry.
From What Not to Say to an Impecunious Poet Selling Their Wares at an Artisan Market
© Jon Platten 2026
After the conference, I pack all the books I’d hoped could join the Resolute Books stall back in my suitcase and head home. When I get there, I can finally process my thoughts in the best way I know, by writing:
On hearing the news that my cancer is no longer undetectable
I ring the consultant for my PSA score.
But I’m knocking at a triple-locked door.
He doesn’t speak to me any more:
Please be aware that the position of consultant’s secretary is vacant.
Leave a message and we will get back to you.
They don’t.
I ring them again the following day,
Hope they’ll have something more to say.
They don’t:
Please be aware that the position of consultant’s secretary is vacant.
Leave a message and we will get back to you.
They don’t.
I ring another number at the hospital:
Please leave a message and we will get back to you.
I wait.
And wait.
And fret.
I need to know before I go away for the weekend.
They ring.
The cancer is no longer undetectable.
The score’s only quite low, though, it’s 0.1 –
You need 0.4 before treatment’s begun.
Even so, I’m reeling, feeling
Like my life is unravelling.
0.1, 0.1,
Just when I thought the cancer was done,
There are figures in front of me pointing a gun.
I’m blindfolded in front of a firing squad
See no future on Earth, start to ask, what is God?
See that little boy smile as he holds up his prize,
A glint of hope in his six-year-old eyes.
I feel bereft
As I sense what it means
To have little time left.
I can’t believe that it’s all over
Before it ever had begun.
All my dreams
Broken,
Like custard creams
When they collapse
Into my cup of tea
To become sludge,
Unappetising,
Inedible,
A waste.
© Jon Platten 2026