I’m starting a new novel. I’ve started it a few times, but the old novel kept calling me back for more edits. This new novel has lived in my subconscious for a while, maybe too long? Am I sure it’s where I went to spend the next few years? Are these characters the ones I want to spend time with?
​I believe so. They’ve stuck with me and so have their story lines, shifting and evolving. At first, I thought it was the daughter’s story, but now I’m firmly entrenched that it’s the mother’s story. I am considering three viewpoints, but the mother keeps coming through so strong, I’m not sure there’s room for others. To be determined.

​I’m flying the coop! I’ve been a work-from-home mom for almost 21 years now. I’ve taken a couple vacations—a week here or there, but this one feels different. I’m going to Italy for two weeks, without my family. I travelled a lot when I was young and single. Doing two major backpacking trips: the first through northern Europe before I started a two month job in Norway. And then another, I refer to as my beach vacation: Hawaii, Australia, New Zealand, Fiji and Venice Beach, California.
It was the time before internet, before a little phone in your pocket connected you to the world. I actually took a camera—and had no phone at the time. I remember the struggles trying to learn the pay phone system in each country so I could call home to my mother and let her know I was still alive. As a mother now, I’m deeply sorry for what I put my mom through!

​Living in Canada means living with weather. When I lived in Toronto, there were ways to ignore it, but when I moved to Grey County, I soon realized there was no denying winter as it piled outside my door. I did learn to embrace it through: snowshoeing, cross-country skiing and eventually hockey. And I also learned there was no better time for a writer than in the depths of winter. And then there was that pandemic. For us introverts, it was a perfect time for writing.
Slowly things are opening up, or maybe I’m slowly opening up. Sometimes, I feel like I’m crawling out of a dark cave, adjusting to the light, checking out the horizon. And it’s not just covid, but my daughters have just come of age, so I’m also waking from the world of intense parenting—at least it felt intense! Obviously, the job doesn’t end here, but the duties are less time-consuming.

​And I’m also coming out of a long period of editing my novel, getting it ready to submit. And as close to the end as it’s seemed, the finish line keeps getting moved back. Al-most-there-just-a-bit-more-to-do. I’d printed off a copy and read through and made edits before handing it to other friends to read.

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"Transition: (a) a passage or change from one place, state, condition etc. to another; (b) passage in thought, speech, or writing, from one subject to another. " (From the Canadian Oxford Dictionary.)
If we’re lucky and kind to ourselves, we will live long lives. And in that life time we will be different people, wear different hats, be different ages. Some will change more than others, but we will all change to some degree. When we take that same concept to our writing, we’re talking about the character arc. How does the character change over the course of the novel?
(There are stories where the protagonist doesn’t change, but I don’t particularly like those stories.)
All stories have characters, but I love stories where the main focus is the character development and plot is secondary. I’m interested in people: how they live, how they feel, how they function, how they survive. They say that fiction is the art that comes closest to representing human consciousness. I want to know what goes on inside people’s heads.

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Will I ever forget the blizzard of 22? We were stuck home like so many others. But since we knew it was coming, we’d prepared. We’d canceled plans to visit family on Christmas and made sure we were well-stocked with food and necessities. But no more than an hour into the blizzard and we’d lost power. This wasn’t looking good. We hadn’t filled the water buckets yet. Our usual debate about getting a generator ensued.
Without power, we stayed by the fire most of the day. What better time to do some reading! I have the most comfortable reading chair right next to the fire. That, a cat and my blanket and I was all set for a Hygge Christmas. I took the forced digital disconnection to catch-up on some reading on writing. I re-read most of Robert McKee’s, Story.  And I skimmed through, Story Genius, by Lisa Cron, which I’d previously read. And also caught up a bit on, Save the Cat! Writes a Novel, by Jessica Brody.

The theme of fear keeps popping up for me this month.  My spiritual teacher used it for a focus of discussion at the beginning of the month and I’ve been contemplating what my fears are and which ones I need to push through and which ones I need to honour. For instance, the old example of jumping off a cliff into water. I’m okay with not doing that. I don’t chase an adrenaline high. Maybe I’m missing out, but I generally don’t like falling. Perhaps I’m just a creature of comfort, but I also know I have to push outside my comfort zone to grow anything.
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I’m also listening to the book, The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals that Protect Us from Violence,by Gavin de Becker. He tells us how our bodies know when something’s wrong, it’s whether or not we listen to our own inner warning signals. The signs are always there even though people often say, I had no idea. Becker uses the example of our dogs, how they will react negatively to a person who wants to harm us in some way. The dog is not reacting to the stranger, the dog is reacting to you and the signals your body is giving. Often, in an effort to be polite, or nice, we override our own gut instincts getting us into trouble we could’ve seen coming.

As a novel writer, I move at a tortoise’s pace, working over my words with a fine tooth comb, re-reading to make sure everything flows as it should, reviewing beginnings and endings…you get the point, it’s never ending. As a first-time novel writer, I have the luxury of time.
But the newspaper and magazine world are all about timeliness. I’ve had a taste of this as I used to write-in to the local newspaper fairly frequently, responding to the current issues of the day. When you need speed, you lose some perfectionism, or at least you have to let some of it go. It feels antithetical to novel writing

​“I finished my novel,” I announced with excitement.
My family sat around the dinner table staring at me, silent.
“Aren’t you happy for me?”
More silence. My husband looked at me sheepishly, trying to find words. “It’s just that we’ve heard this before.”

And he has. Several times. To be fair, this novel has been a twenty year project in the making. (I can hear the groans in the background.) If you’re just starting out, don’t worry, that doesn’t have to be you. And I hope it’s never me again. But often it depends on how much else you have going on in your life, how much time you can dedicate to writing. Slow and steady doesn’t always win the race, but often gets you to the finish line, at least. And for me, several times.
So how many times have I finished this novel?

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