When January rolled in, I had a meltdown over the issue of lost files on the computer. Alas, it was human error and 'unintentional', but they happened to be files I had drafted. My relative happened to click the wrong button and vamoose! The files disappeared. No backup. Just gone.
It took me a good three weeks to recover from this incident, but who can blame someone for an 'accident'? And how many times have other people lost files?
So by the beginning of February, I'm back on keel after a very strange January which triggered many bizarre thoughts in my schizoaffective mind, followed by emotional whiplash.
Last year, a writer friend of mine in New York, James Young, sent me newspaper clippings of a novella that ran in the Metro newspaper titled Temp by Douglas Coupland, a fellow writer/artist who lives in Vancouver who you may be familiar with. It was a stellar collection of chapters about this temp and the company she worked for. Humorous, ironic and current. As a result, I went to Book Warehouse and bought more than a few Coupland novels. (I take a long time to read books, so why not pay for them and relish them for awhile?)
I had also just completed reading Banana Boys by Terry Woo who I met at the LiterAsian Festival, which showcased Pacific Rim Asian Canadian writers. Believe it or not I found these two authors' work complemented each other and inspired me. I found myself eager to start writing a novel.
Starting December 7th, I wrote like a fiend, until my eyeballs could no longer focus and my neck developed a serious pain issue. I sat at my computer in the basement for 6 or 8 hours a day until my feet froze and my legs became icicles. Still I persevered.
My New York friend is also a published writer. He has had three books published including Rerun, Time Passages, and Bounty Hunter. He aided me in the editing process and wrote an entertaining commentary with his responses to my story.
So lo and behold, about two months later, I find myself with a novel length manuscript. My intention is to let it simmer awhile longer, go over it a few more times, look for changes, and then eventually approach agents or publishers.
Sometimes in our darkest moments, we find out what we're made of.