As the years went along, and I found myself still, writing my book it felt like everyone else was already publishing theirs. What was the matter with me? Why was it taking me so long? I was embarrassed to keep telling people, that, yes, I am still writing my book.
When will it be published? Before I’m too old to write another, I sincerely prayed. Or, worse, that my kids will find it in a drawer long after I’m gone, and bemuse that Mom never did finish that book.
And the dreaded, what’s it about?
I sent it out once to a handful of carefully chosen Canadian publishers and received a handful of very praiseworthy rejections. I admit that I did not submit to any publishers that required a synopsis.
But, this book had a mind of it’s own, and despite my best intentions of burying it, and getting on with my life seemed to gnaw at me demanding attention.
I managed to muster up the wherewithal to dig in to the novel one last time. All in. No excuses.
I worked around the clock. I sat at my kitchen table through breakfast, lunch and dinner. Saw the snow melt in patches, and that morning when the leaves suddenly appeared on the trees, like they had been there all along. I slept – I think. In the middle of most nights a line came to me or a mistake struck me, and I made my way back to the computer, let the dog out, and saw the moon had circled to my front door.
Now I understand what it takes to write a book. This was a whole new level of commitment to writing. Every word, each sentence, became a critical strand of a web so intricately woven and interdependent that I was mesmerized and driven to completion. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s actually true. And one day, that was that. I had dredged every piece of myself and there was absolutely nothing left. There were no more changes I wanted to make. No more words to query. No ones approval to seek.
I know that I could not have done more. And that is about as good as it gets for an author. Because, not everyone will like it, and that feeling of vulnerability is terrifying. And, I’m sure that when I read it again as a physical book, I might cringe and wish I could change things. But, for better or worse I am done.
My novel, Conversations for Two, is a story about a woman who serendipitously comes across a box of her brother’s writings, twenty-five years after his death, and through his poems and journals discovers his life and the love that rocked his world. And this book talks about how we remember someone, and how we peer through a crack in the window of grief and somehow see the flowers bloom again.
I surrounded myself with book people, but more specifically those who love the craft of the book. I am grateful that they all put up with me, as my fixation to every detail translated to every aspect of the work.
It’s being published by, The Jam Press, a very exciting new independent press in Toronto. It will be available on October 22nd.
For more information please check out www.thejampress.com