3 years ago this past Thursday (Jan. 27), I was sitting in front of my computer, trying to write and failing miserably. I had a deadline coming up in less than a week for 6 chapters, and I'd barely written 2. I could not, for the life of me, write a coherent sentence. Writing, the thing I'd once loved to do, the thing that had once defined me, had deserted me.
It was a miserable Sunday. I'd planned to write all weekend, but you know what happens when you have a lot of time to do something. You keep telling yourself you have time, you have time. Now I didn't. I'd gone to the mall with my daughter, and I kept thinking, "I should be writing." And then I thought, here I am with my daughter, who won't want to be with me in a few years. I wanted to be enjoying it. Instead, the "should" of writing had taken over my life.
It wasn't always like that. I used to live for writing. But times change. Instead of being young and free, and writing as my sole career, I was a single mother, working full-time. Writing was no longer supreme. I'd plotted my current book in the summer, and I'd liked the story a lot. Somehow, though, I coulldn't write it. Throughout the fall I'd think, "I wish I didn't have to do this." The voice of reason always came back: You have a contract. Just write it. It's going to be your last book. You'll be going out with 20 books under your belt, and that's a nice round number. Just do it.
And so I came to this day, this miserable Sunday which couldn't decide if it should rain or snow, staring at the computer and literally unable to write. I wish I didn't have to do this, I thought, and this time a different voice came back, the voice of a different reason: You don't. Buy yourself out of the contract. You don't have to do this.
It was as if a weight physically lifted itself off my chest. Instantly I was filled with elation and relief. I didn't have to write this book. I didn't have to write at all. I was free.
I waited until Tuesday to call my agent. I wanted to make sure that I was making the right choice. I knew I was letting a lot of people down. I knew I was throwing away what was beginning to look like a financially promising career, and possibly the chance of ever publishing again. But every time I thought of my decision, my spirit soared. When I talked to Meredith there was deadly silence for a moment. Then she told me what I already knew, about buying myself out of the contract. I said that I knew, hung up, and started crying. At the same time, I flung my arms out in joy. The publishing career that had started 20 years earlier with a panic attack ended with the Snoopy dance.
I never regretted that decision. Never. Sometimes I looked at books and wondered how authors wrote them, how I once had known that secret, and felt wistful. But the pressure was gone. Writing the very large check that got me out from under legally, hurt. But what price peace of mind? Now I could think of the date that was supposed to be a deadline and not flinch. The "should" was gone.
Just before Christmas of this past year, 2010, my computer died. While my genius of a repairman was able to resucitate it, I knew it was only a matter of time before it went for good. I bought myself a cute little laptop, and decided to put my old book files on it, before they were lost forever. Of course they were stored on floppies, and my laptop does not have a floppy drive. Of course the early books were written on a word processor from the 80's, so old it ran under DOS instead of Windows. Of course, MS Word couldn't read these files. Even Notepad couldn't read these files. I was stymied, until I found a small, free program (note the word "free") to convert the files. Voila! Suddenly they were readable again. I could get them produced as ebooks, and in large print. I had a chance to make more money from writing, without actually having to write.
Something funny happened as I reformatted the files into Word, though. I started liking what I was doing. Yes, I liked the stories, but I liked the process just as much. One manuscript was converted, and then another, and before I knew it I'd done a third and started reading others. I was staying up until as late as 3 AM, and loving it.
I discovered a few things. I realized that Matt, the hero in my Gilded Age mysteries, really needs to lighten up, and Brooke, the heroine, needs to grow up. (just after I thought this, a character in the book told her the same thing. My writing instincts always were sound). I learned that I can bring a fictional scene to life, and though I don't remember the research I did, the results were there, and done well. And I learned that, man! can I create a romantic hero! I fell in love with Nat Howland of Beyond the Sea, and in severe lust with Brendan Fitzpatrick, the pirate of In a Pirate's Arms. What I realized finally is that Mary Kingsley, romance novelist, is a far better writer than Mary Kruger, mystery novelist. There's a reason for that. Mary Kruger never liked her books as much as Mary Kingsley did.
Have I come full circle? No. I don't have a book needing to be written, or a character begging me to tell his story. While the process of producing a book is beginning to look attractive again, I need the passion to tell a story to keep me going, for all the time and effort and emotion it takes. That's not back yet. Three years ago, though, I didn't know I'd feel as much as I do now. I thought writing was gone for good. It turns out I needed only a rest, and freedom to make my own decisions. I'm not letting that freedom be taken away from me again.
Nearly 30 years ago I was walking along Cambridge Street in Boston, on my way back to work at lunchtime, and thinking about the book I was writing. I had a revelation then. It clarified something that I'd known all my life, and defined me in a way that few other things have done. I've had that revelation again, and it's just as important and momentous now as it was then. I know again something vital and crucial and yet, very simple.
I'm a writer.
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