You can catch up on the previous episodes by clicking on the ‘Writing M.I.’ page.
On with the story:
… A few months later, on the other side of the world, when she finally emptied the dregs of the boxes, something magical happened …
So, there she was, in Canada, married, with a brand new family of grown-up children, (most of whom seem to be showing an irrationial urge to get married!) grand-children, and cousins of all manner of degrees (it still overwhelms her sometimes, but that’s another story) who appear to be working diligently on creating the next generation of Canadians.
She was at a loose end because she hadn’t received her Workers Permit yet, and unless she wanted to work and get paid under the counter which would’ve placed her whole residency process in jeopardy, she was left to her own devices.
One day, her wife, after patiently watching her climb the walls, told her to haul that manuscript out of that suitcase in the closet and start working on it.
She resisted. Of course she resisted, for a very simple reason. By this time she’d gleaned enough knowledge about the whole writing-to-get-published process to know just exactly how much work was involved. Lots … and lots.
She wasn’t adverse to hard work. She’d grown up in a very primitive rural shack near a creek that provided her family with their only source of water, so hard work sat on her shoulder, comfortably if not happily, for most of her life.
But writing a novel wasn’t like picking crops in a field, or studying architecture, or even running lesbian spirituality workshops. It was nothing like becoming a Shaman, or re-learning how to ride a bicycle.
She ran out of things it wasn’t like, and decided to follow Yoda’s advice.
“ … Try not!. Do, or do not. There is no try.” (Which doesn’t mean a do-or-die attitude, but to commit to the ‘doing’ with all your spirit and being)
She rewrote the prologue, the first chapter. Her creative fires awoke and her Muses (Irony and Serendipity – a couple of bad-ass women if ever there was!) shook the cobwebs from their staffs (staves?)and kept the energy flowing.
As she wrote, a mysterious and nameless discontent flitted in and out of the shadows just beyond the edge of her vision. She was a third of the way through her latest rewrite, and unfortunately the discontent had grown logarithmically. Now she had a name for it; Backstory.
Backstory was not happy with ‘The Awakener‘. Backstory wanted a whole book of its own, and something magical happened …