I am at a new and very exciting point in my life. For the first time there’s something tangible to show for my work. I’ve written a novel and it’s published TODAY!!!!
Never before have I had so much positive affirmation, so many congratulations, so much delight in what I have achieved and yet this feels like the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Bring on the standing ovation for the years spent teaching, raising my family, running a business, creating a home, caring for my parents and supporting my husband’s work. A round of applause, thank you, for the days spent cleaning and cooking, driving back and forth to school playgrounds, cooking dinners and dealing with all of the crises that happen along the way. Let’s hear it for the thirty- five-year marriage and the friendships that have survived the years. Yes I am appreciated and loved and yes I know I’ve done my best and had a productive and exciting life. I’m rewarded on a daily basis by all of that love. Even so, I get a tremor of excitement at the physicality of this book.
Writing a novel has been one of the most satisfying, rewarding, pleasurable things I’ve ever done. It took me into a world of my own creation, where I was totally in control. When one of my characters went on an adventure I went along for the ride, curious to see where they would take me. My only limitations were self-imposed. I wrote for the guilt-free pleasure of being locked in a world of my imagination, without thought for whether it would make money, get published or flop. I wrote whenever I could and probably at one of the busiest and most stressful times of my life. I wrote instead of shopping or reading or doing any of the many other things that usually give me space and time for myself.
The more I turned up, the more easily the words flowed. I could hear my ‘voice’ getting stronger. There came a point where I wanted someone to share what I’d written and as a result became more confident with my writing and more confident in myself; thrilled to learn that my friends had escaped into this fantasy I had created.
I had no idea starting out where this would lead and still don’t. What I do know is that once I committed fully to writing India’s Summer the project took on a life of its own. I used to think that what I needed more than anything else was time. What I’ve learned is that time expands to fill the space available.
Blogging is fun and self-indulgent, it keeps the muscles working but it doesn’t give me energy or preoccupy me in the same way. I’m working on the sequel. Something tells me India still has far to go…