When I started my first book four years
ago, to say I knew nothing about writing, would be a gross understatement.
I remember sitting in the writing group,
hearing the term ‘protagonist’ tossed about, and I had no idea what they were
talking about. But I wanted to learn.
I made notes at every meeting. If anyone
reading this knows me, they’d be shaking their head and saying ‘of course she
made notes’. I wrote down
any words I didn’t understand and looked them all up once I was home.
Given this lack of knowledge, what made me
think I could write a book? I don’t know, but write a book I did.
I had my brother’s notes from his creative
writing course, some ‘how to’ books and a copy of Writer’s Digest magazine.
More importantly, I had an idea, and I had the drive, even if I was lacking in
experience and confidence.
There was something else I had in my
favour, or rather someone, my friend and neighbour. She suffered through the
writing of that first book, word for word and page by page, right along side of
me.
I wrote the first few chapters, printed
them off and gave them to her to read. After, we sat down with a cup of tea and
talked about what I had written. This became a routine, the sharing, the
discussion, the tea, or sometimes, maybe a glass of wine. She was my sounding
board, as she listened to my struggles with plot, characterization et cetera,
with unwavering encouragement.
We talked about the process of writing,
almost as much as we talked about my story. I was an eager student, wanting to
share everything I learned. And she loved education, her career having been
spent in the public school system.
Midway through the book, I remember sitting
at her place, as we rehashed the new chapters, talking about what Katie, my
female 'protagonist', was up to.
I started to laugh. “Look at us,” I said. “We’re
sitting here gossiping about this fictional character like she’s someone real, someone we know.”
We were invested in this young woman’s
struggle, for she had become very real to us. For me as I wrote, and for her as
she read, we were emotionally involved in her life, her heartbreak and her desire
to start over, to find her place.
At that point in my life I was also trying
to find my place, and needed something, some outlet to keep me busy and
challenge my need to be creative.
For more than thirty years, I had been a
dedicated nurse. A career I lost, suddenly, due to the worsening of my chronic
illness.
Writing became my solace, it filled that
void in my life the way nothing else could. As pain and fatigue are with me
constantly, writing is something I can do even when I feel at my worst.
I would like to take this opportunity to say
thank you, to my friend, Joyce. I don’t know if I would have finished that
first book without your support.
That experience was unique, and was not to
be repeated. I've gained confidence, and though we still discuss what
I’m writing, I only give her a manuscript to read once the first draft is
complete. She’s one of my regular readers now, and I prefer to have her
feedback after she’s read the book at her own pace, instead of having it doled
out in pieces.
She once told me she doesn’t read with the
same sense of enjoyment as she did before. She reads with a more critical eye
now, looking at the details and how the book has been written.
I think she’s reading more like a writer.
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