For more years than I’d like to admit, I’ve been working on a novel. It has passed through many phases. It began with a male first-person present narration—my first completed novel since an ill-fated handwritten one when I was seventeen—titled, The Cost of Weather. It got very confused after being critiqued to death and insulted by a well-respected literary agent, so for several years it retired in a drawer somewhere. In that novel, my narrator meets a woman in Paris while he searches for his missing sister. The woman is a modern dancer in search of a long-ago abandoned lover. A brief Paris fling ensues. Twenty years later, they meet in Toronto, and in that story, begin an ill-fated relationship. The story I needed to write was her story, but at the time, her backstory was too close to mine, so I kept her at a distance.
Then I tried to tell the truth and spent a couple of years writing a memoir. I got tangled in the chronology and concern for the living.
I wrote What the Living Do and One Way Home before circling around to tell the story that is now The Soft Ones.
That’s a mouthful but it gives an idea of the twists and turns this book took before landing on the right approach. And even then! If you’ve read some of my previous posts, you’ll know that during my lovely long residency in France where I envisioned a relatively seamless enterprise of stitching things together, filling holes, and generally deleting all the superfluous stuff, it was not to be so. (I could hear God laughing during my whole trip, btw.)
I had an attic atelier in which to figure it all out. Quiet. No distractions or responsibilities—only me and the manuscript struggling through the hours. I busted open some cardboard boxes and laid them along the room-wide trestle tables in order to illustrate the arc of the scenes. I printed the manuscript (100,000 words) out in 8-point font, cut the scenes, and laid them on the floor. I had a whiteboard on which I colour-coded the characters and their emotional arcs. I walked. I sat in parks and beside rivers with my notebook. It was tough going. And it often felt as though it was going nowhere.
Sorry if this is a bit redundant, but I’m still in a state of wonder about how it all transpired. I was a full three weeks into my residency when it broke open. The rock I was pushing uphill came rolling down and gleefully splashed into the Serien River. In the first person, the story wrote itself. (That’s slightly untrue since the whole story was right in front of my face. However…)
This is all preface to saying that it’s done. When I returned to Canada, I still had some tidying up and filling in to do. It was easy in the satisfying way the last dozen or so pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle just snap into place.
But now, I’m left somewhat bereft. I’ve sent it off to my editor, and in order to ensure its believability, to a dancer friend who is intimately connected with the subject matter. But although I’ve told the story that needed to be told, the main character is so close to me that I want to keep writing scenes for her. I remember feeling that way when I finished What the Living Do. Years later, when I drove down the street in Barrie where I imagined my protagonist, Brett lived, I felt the urge to go visit, and felt a little teary that I could not.
Some time ago when I was letting The Soft Ones sit for a bit, I started another novel. It began as a short story and then kept expanding to the point where I have three full notebooks of scenes. But I’m not feeling it. I’m still stuck in the one that is apparently finished.
So why the resistance, I ask myself. Why not just dive right in?
Since for the most part, I’m a pantser, unable to quite fathom the whole outline thing, I’m well aware that writing a novel is HARD, complex, and takes a really, really long time to get it so that it feels right.
Consider this a public service announcement.
In other news…
Having just received a box of Advanced Reading Copies of What the Living Do, I’m gearing up for March, when it will be released into the world at large. I’m turning my attention away as best I can from Chaptgpt or AI whatever, and from all the news about how the market is flooded and everyone’s got a book and no one’s reading. I’m forging ahead as I often have, into alien territory with only a small flashlight to keep me on the path.
Here's what’s been illuminated thus far:
The remarkable, clever, delightful, Richard Scrimger has agreed to host both my launches in March and April. In Orillia, Ontario on Sunday, March 24, from 1 – 3 p.m. (Eastern time zone for those who want to be there virtually), and in Toronto on Thursday, April 11 from 7 – 9 p.m.
Last week, I drove to Toronto to take Richard to lunch and join me in scoping out venue possibilities. Spending those hours with him confirmed I’d made the right decision. There’s nothing quite so divine as spending time with a friend who has the same sort of jam. (Or, in this case, seabream.) We talked all things writing, editing, and publishing while eating seabream and laughing a lot.
The venue at The Centre for Social Innovation on Bathurst Street exceeded my hopes for a cracking launch. We’ll have food, an open bar, an entertaining emcee, and oh yeah, me reading and being interviewed about the book. Also, you’ll be able to buy a copy. So if you don’t come to the Orillia one (where I hope to have live music as well as live stream it) then do please come to Toronto. You will be fed and entertained.
I’ve had some rare luck in the last months. Three short pieces were accepted for publication: Mostly Sorry, in the Waterwheel Review, Could a Locked Door Save a Marriagein the Third Street Review, and Word For Word in Funicular Magazine.
I will leave you with a poem about my annual camping trip with my son. It’s not a great poem but it encapsulates our time together in a way that makes us both smile.
I can attest that yes, everyone has a book…but we ARE reading! I’ve finished 35 books so far this calendar year. And I am looking forward to reading yours! ☺️
I can attest that yes, everyone has a book…but we ARE reading! I’ve finished 35 books so far this calendar year. And I am looking forward to reading yours! ☺️
Deepam,
This is lovely. What about instituting some kind of closing ritual around completing a novel? Sending your characters off with a fond farewell?
I can appreciate and resonate with your journey. I still think of Benjy and Tommy.
XOXO,
Barbara