There are few things…

There are few things I feel with the certainty I feel about being a writer.

Desire pulses with each heartbeat. Writer. Writer. Writer.

Every fiber of my being is satisfied when I think about my reality as a professional writer. Letting go of my other career, the engineering one, feels so wonderful, it’s difficult to describe. Happiness is laced with worry and uncertainty. It’s odd, the mix. I’m sure, and I’m unsure. I’m sure I’ll make it happen, unsure how.

I know it’s realistic magic.

When I think about the idea of resuming work as an engineer, a dark, itchy gray wool blanket falls on my world. Financial security, but days spent sucking the soul out of me. I was never meant to be an engineer. Something I liked about it was the instant recognition, because people inevitably respect you when you’re an engineer. Borne out of the fact that you “must” be smart, and people generally don’t know what engineers do. Another thing is that it was my identity for 9 years. Nine years of thinking about it, feeling both trapped and supported by it. As a fall back career, it may seem as though it wasn’t all that bad, and rather practical, but the truth is that it depressed me.

The creative part of me tried outlets. I taught myself to play guitar, I learned to knit. Sew, colour, write a blog. Still, it wasn’t enough.

I’m sure there are people out there who know the dream early, and always work toward it. Those people are easy to pick out; they’re generally happy.

I think sometimes you need someone to tell you that it’s OK to want what you want. It’s OK to be who you are on the outside, as well as the inside.

This passed year, I found myself unemployed twice. Each time, it felt like a welcome break from a long line of work. The first time it happened, I entertained wild career ideas. Teacher! Radio announcer! Florist! Whatever isn’t engineering. Whatever is easy.

This latest time, though, I took a good look at myself. I took two days to think, think, think, think hard about what I want. And I let myself hear the answer that was deep inside my secret heart of hearts, buried in that small place that wasn’t practical. The small place that didn’t care. And that small part, it screamed writer.

After those two days, I started a journey that I haven’t completely finished yet. In fact, I’m not really sure when I’ll finish it, because I don’t know what the end is, exactly. All I know is that the thing I want most of all to do in this life, the only one I have, is to have no regrets. I want to write fiction. I want to meet people at book signings. I want to spend most of my days flexible, waking when I wake up, sleeping when I’m tired, writing when inspiration won’t leave me alone. I want to carve a life for myself wherein I can support myself doing what I love.

This is what has led me to seriously consider a job at a bookstore. A clerk at a bookstore. I feel better about the idea of this job than I do about any high-paying engineering job. A cashier doesn’t have to care what mistakes she does at work. She doesn’t have to worry about coworkers or reputation. She can go to work, go home and completely forget everything there. Then she can write to her heart’s content.

I asked Doug what he thought. I love him, so obviously, I care what he thinks about all of this. He told me that I never had the personality of an engineer. It seems incredible to me, but he actually doesn’t see me as much different. Even though I feel completely different. I am completely different.

I feel completely different because my perception of myself has completely changed.

Now, when I meet people and they ask me what I do, I tell them proudly; I’m a writer. I’m writing a book of historical fiction based in Egypt in the mid-twentieth century. It will be finished next August.

Every new person I’ve met and had an actual conversation with has asked me to contact them when it’s published. I think that’s a sign. The universe is sending kernels of support my way, edging me on, helping me reach my goals. And I dig that.

A glimpse of the book

Leila lay in bed, thinking about her newest situation, so familiar, yet no less frightening in its repetition.

- Excerpt (a line, really), from chapter 5 of my book.

Sometimes, the construction of just one line is enough to make you feel so clever and happy that are left with an overwhelming certainty that you absolutely must go on writing.

Succinct

She got up on a sigh, turned off the light. Must flick off, she thought.

She turned away from the view and headed towards the door for the last time.

It was time to go, she wanted to go, it was for the best to go.

Sadness and joy came in alternating waves.

Musings

I’m sure you’ve noticed that although I’ve been talking about the process of writing my book, I haven’t actually offered up any of it. I’ve been having a hard time with the sharing of this one, which may seem odd considering how often I write on the Internet. You see, it’s the first piece that is a huge chunk of me. It’s vulnerable, and it’s important to me. Each chapter I write (and I’m mostly done chapter three now) is painstakingly revised, every word studied, and it’s difficult for me to make each one ready for human consumption.

The thing is, although I’ve read Chapter One out loud a few times, and I’ve let a couple of people read some of it, I’m still feeling like no one will care about this thing until it’s a done deal.

In a way, that’s OK.

The difference between this book and every other one I’ve ever started is that I know how this one ends.  I know a lot of the twists, the dips and the climaxes.  I’m very excited to get them all down on paper to see what sort of story is weaved by their interlocking in just that specific way they’re forming.  In a way, it’s like knitting a mystery stole.  You know you’ll end up with a stole,  but you have no idea what it will look like in the end.  That’s why I’m still writing it.  That’s what makes it so exciting.  Cause, honestly, who would write a story if they knew exactly everything about it?  That would take the romance and the adventure out of it.

On a completely unrelated topic, I’m seriously considering going dot com.

And suddenly, the dam lets

Oddly enough, I started writing chapter two without feeling it. I mean, I knew that what I was writing belonged in the story, but I also felt that there was something missing in between. A bridge, if you will. My current main character is fighting for attention in a way I never expected! Again with the mild crazy, but there you have it.

Suddenly, over the course of the last two days (which sounds like an inherent contradiction but really isn’t), something happened.  I added in things here and there, moved things around, and lo and behold: one chapter and a couple of bullet points became three. I haven’t finished with chapters two, three and four, but I have indeed begun fleshing them out, and I now know what will happen in each one.

Everything about this experience is incredible to me. From the fact that I’m determined to see it through and finish it by August 28th 2008, to the fact that things gel for me in just the moment I expect the least. Today, it happened while my friend Donna was here. She was doing what she was doing, and so was I, then all of a sudden, it made sense.

That’s my favourite bit. When all of a sudden, things make sense.

Beyond just saying a book, I wonder what exactly the end product will be. Obviously, I have hopes and expectations, but still… I wonder.

Research

Fact is, when you’re writing a book and you dip into an area that is not your specialty, it becomes important to research it. I personally have no interest in writing a book that is not real, not well-researched, or not plausible. There is little that irritatingly pulls me out of a story like an author who has not checked his or her facts and makes up as he or she goes along. That’s just me though. Unless it’s fantasy or sci-fi, where I will admit that I’m considerably more forgiving and willing to accept oddities, you have to back stuff up. Actually, even if it is an imaginary world, your credibility is on the line. You have to back everything up, if it isn’t wide-known fact.

In my case, my story currently takes place in the 1950’s, in Alexandria, Egypt. I want to be able to give the book (or chapters) to someone who has lived there, lived then, and have them feel as though I was there. It’s important for the credibility of the story. In my opinion, it’s important to be able to bring someone into a world (whether it exists, existed, or will exist) and have them feel as though they’re there. They feel how hot it is, how humid. They taste the food, see the clothes and colours, and feel the essence of the world in which the characters live. I have found that the books I get pulled into the most are those wherein I feel as though I’m standing right beside the main character, and feel for them deeply. And the best way to do that is to stick someone immediately in the story.

Another reason to research is that you need to know how likely it is that your character, based on his or her experiences, will react the way he or she does. Is it scandalous for a woman to talk back? Is it the norm for a man to beat his wife, for people to know and do nothing? These are important questions for my story. I need to know.

All in all, you’d be surprised at the directions that your book (and the characters in it) will take you, research-wise.

I, for instance, have realized today that I need to know far more about methods of birth control in the 40s and 50s in Egypt than I do. I’m also researching art in the late 20th century, in France and Egypt, and the development and feel thereof. I had no idea that this would be important in this book, but it appears that it is.

I find that I am suddenly understanding the concept of researching 4 hours for every hour you write. I feel like I’m in school and have multiple projects that are coming up, the subject of which I sometimes know nothing, sometimes know everything, sometimes only need ask a specific someone.

It’s off to the library for me, this weekend.

All of this has made me realize that I have a tremendous amount of work ahead of me.

I could see this as a setback, but I’m concentrating on the fact that I’ve finished chapter one, know what I want to write for chapters two, three and four, and will be writing them relatively quickly once I have the required information at my fingertips.

And I’m still very, very excited.

I’m finally doing it.

Writing a book isn’t as difficult as it seems, and is much more difficult at the same time. Even if you’ve been writing since you could, and know you’re a writer, the way to go is still not always obvious. Even beyond the writing part, there are lots of options these days, lots to know and learn, and this can often be just as paralyzing as having no options at all.

Still, I’m doing it. I’m actually doing it. I’ve written a chapter, my very first one, the first one, and I’ve read it to two people out loud. What an experience… I’ve found that I read too fast, but have a pleasant voice anyway. I’ve also let someone read it. I know these are my friends and family so the feedback is going to be good by default, but I think I need that, at least at first, to keep going. . Encouragement and support. There are all kinds. In any case, I’m really excited about the whole thing. The mantra I keep repeating is, “nothing wrong with this that an excellent editor can’t fix.” And I know that’s true. It helps me concentrate on story, setting, characters and the mood of it all rather than focusing on those things that are tangibly fixable. It’s a constant fight with the inner perfectionist and inner editor, but so far I think I’m winning. (Incidentally, they don’t seem to mind. They like that there’s something for them to edit later.)

I have an outline so I know where I’m headed in the story. I’ve never had that before. I’ve started and dreamed up thousands of stories, even starting to write many of them down, but I’ve never sat down and actually planned a book before, start to finish. This is an incredible breakthrough for me. Things have direction! I’m excited to see how the characters will react to events, how they will interact with each other!

Incidentally, I’m surprised to admit that they are coming alive for me, these characters. They are actually telling me their names, not always just letting me choose them, and what they’re like. It’s an incredible feeling, and the deeper I get into this experience, the more I think you’ve got to be a little crazy to be a writer. Also, I am definitely that kind of crazy and happy to be.

I’ve thought of, and hopefully have dealt with, another issue; writer’s block. I haven’t experienced it yet this time around, but the moment I feel stopped, the very moment it happens, I’ve decided that it will be perfectly OK. I’ll just skip on ahead to another chapter I know I will have to write later anyway, and the characters will help me fill in the blanks, if there are any. Just like that.

This story, my first official manuscript, it is so very important to me, and it means something for me to have it out there. In my not-thinking-of-the-story time, I tend to daydream along the lines of what next. How will I decide on an editor, what will I do to advertise so people will actually want to buy my book. This is… it’s just so huge. So huge. I keep reading up on things I can do, dreaming up venues and ideas and thinking of networking. It’s odd to start thinking in a completely different way. So different from what I’m used to thinking of as actual work. This is like that time I starting going to school in English, when before I had been used to thinking and working in French. It’s an adjustment and a changing of the gears.

Conclusions so far?

Writing itself is as thrilling as it is terrifying.

Quiet

The sound of his arrival comes, as it always does, with a click and a creek. He has been gone four hours, but it wasn’t enough. When you’re in the mood, in the zone, there is never enough time.

His voice, a voice I love, deep and rumbly, tries my patience. I try saying hello quietly, and carrying on. A few words will suffice, I think, then I can return to my adventure, the adventure in my head. I say them, and because he knows me, he lets it be.

The sound of a commercial on TV, brought to life by a flick of his finger, grates on my nerves. I turn back to the task at hand, trying to focus. There’s a contest, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to enter. The rules and regulations will involve inconveniencing him in a few weeks, inconveniencing me. I am trying to make up my mind. I read three words eight times and realize that to my great annoyance, I cannot tolerate any sounds today. I resign myself to abandoning my adventure until the next time opportunity presents itself for me to escape into my other world.

I sit down in front of the television with an “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” attitude and notice that we’ve changed places. I am now watching, he is now concentrating. I turn off the distraction and reach for another, the one I prefer: the written word. Although I cannot write without silence, I can read with some noise, and so I begin.

Before too long has passed, I realize that all is as quiet as it was when I was alone. I reach for pen and paper, and decide to describe this very experience. As I arrive to this exact moment, I realize that I was wrong; it is not the same as when I was alone. There is an unspoken element of comfort now. It is quiet, but I am not alone. And suddenly I no longer need the quiet.

For now.

Water

Sometimes, I like wading into a frigid brook, climbing to stand on a half-immersed rock. I like watching the water swirl around it. I like watching the water flow over it. I like seeing how long I can stand there, immobile, listening to sounds, feeling the cold, cold water on my cold, cold feet. I like thinking about possibilities.

When I feel like I can’t stand it any longer and goosebumps form on my arms despite the warm weather and long sleeved shirt or sweater, I like to scramble out of the water as though I’ve just been burned, squealing about the cold until I reach the shore, my shoes, my socks.

I like the feeling when I dry my feet as best I can, pull on my socks, and sit on the shore, watching the water.

Never what you think

A sadness fills me and I have no words of explanation for her. I don’t know where to go from here. Doing what you have to do never felt so damned shitty.

I have killed my brother-in-law.

Granted, there were others around and no one has quite caught on yet. It is the moment before realization creeps into her eyes. The moment before her illusions are shattered. She hasn’t yet made the connection, because I have told her nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone else had to point it out to her, even when she is given the facts. That’s shock, I suppose. Not that she isn’t quick; quite the contrary. The thing is, she would not even consider the possibility. She loves me and is loyal to me as a junkie is to his dealer and his drug.

I’ve often wondered about loyalty. Where it comes from, exactly, what cements it to the point that it interferes with logic, considers emotion and feelings. I’ve often thought of it as a strength, because it gives you strength to do things you otherwise wouldn’t have done or thought of doing. I know she would say it is a derivative of love. I’m not sure if I believe that. Actually, I’m not sure what to believe anymore. All I know is what I did. And that I had to do it.

Someone once told me there is no right or wrong. Only what we do or don’t. I’ve thought about that at length and though it seems contradictory, it is, in essence, the very same thing. Right or wrong, do or don’t.

I wonder how far her loyalty will go. I wonder if she will ever be capable of looking at me with anything but loathing when she learns what I have done. I wonder if she can know what it means to me to have had to do it. I wonder if it is possible to be happy ever again, knowing your sister has destroyed your family forever.

Ok, maybe it sounds like I am being melodramatic. Hey, free country, think what you like. It can’t possibly measure up to what is in store for me.

“Ava.” her soft brown doe eyes search my face. She knows me and knows there is something she doesn’t know. I wish there wasn’t. I wish I could change series of events and erase choices she made the way I can see into peoples’ hearts. I have never allowed myself regret before. Always thought it was a self-indulgence.

“Ava,” she says again, although my attention has not wavered from her face. “Tell me how.”

Of all the statements she could have chosen, naturally she chooses the how. The one question I will be able to answer more completely than she can imagine. I touch her shoulder, turn her grief-stricken eyes toward the window, where Channel Four has seemingly parked a third of its considerable staff on her front lawn. She draws the deep purple curtains.

“Tell me how this was possible.” My eyes jerk back to hers, fleetingly noticing how pale she seems, and how composed she is for a woman who has just been informed of the murder of her husband. She keeps staring at me, looking for something; an indication that I am protecting her, perhaps, from a harsher truth? She has no idea. But I do what I must. I decide to tell her what I can. she has a right to know, after all. He was hers long before he was ever mine. If I can call him that.

“Me. That’s how, Liv. It was me. I made it possible.”

She frowns, blinks hard, looks at me, wringing her hands.

“I don’t understand.”

I don’t expect I will really truly ever be able to explain it to her. How do you tell your sister that her loving, devoted husband died at the hand of his very own sister-in-law without dying inside?

“I killed Greg.” I whisper. The light of confusion fades to be replaced by suspicion, disbelief, fear, then, as shock takes over, blinding grief returns. She falls to her knees and me with her, tears soaking her collar. Her attention moves to the coffee table, not focusing. Not speaking, but I hear the silent accusation. And then, she shakes. She looks at me with disbelief again, ready to say something, catches my expression and the words die in her throat. She gets up and looks down to where I have not moved.

“Go. Leave me. Leave me. Alone. I want.. go.” Her voice is a shadow and her eyes are empty. I’m unsure of what to do next. So lost, both of us. She understands now. She understands the beginning. After absorbing the intensity in my sister’s hate-filled eyes, I leave the room. Out the front door, look down the street to see no one in the crowd, put on my black helmet over hair so black it often looks blue, snap the visor over what I have been repeatedly told are piercing grey eyes, and speed out of the neighbourhood.

I think of how she left the room, brokenly, to go upstairs where I know she will to sit in the corner of her enormous closet with silent tears wracking her grief-stricken body.

I think of another time, long ago, when two little girls were found in another closet.