The Beginning of a Journey

I find myself in Tangier, Morocco, in an internet cafe. (If this post has a bunch of typos, please ignore them because the keyboards are different here and typing is very automatic so I'm making lots of corrections.) I'm having to go slow and carefully, laboring over each word. It's like trying to speak another language - and why not? In the last week I've worked my way through English, Spanish, French, and even a couple words of Arabic, believe it or not. So why not a new keyboard language too?

For those of you following my journey, I've been to Madrid, Seville, and Algeciras in Spain and from here in Tangier, Morocco, I'll be moving on to Casablanca - here's looking at you, kid!

All along the way, I've been working at life in general, unable to take things for granted, and living in the moment. And it strikes me that that isn't such a bad thing. Perhaps that's why I love traveling. It makes me see what's around me and really appreciate everything, from the breeze blowing against my cheeks, to the beauty of a stranger's smile, to the voice of a loved one half a world away, to even the delicious cool slide of water down my parched throat. Life is more intense and beautiful than normal, despite the small 'adventures`I've been having all along the way. Life is a wonderful gift.

In every place I've visited, people have reached out to me, helping me, making me feel like part of their family, telling me the stories of their lives, even sometimes their hopes and dreams. I feel connected with everyone around me and I try to be worthy of the blessings I am so aware of having. Today, I was walking along and found a 50 MAD note (worth about 5 euros). There was no one around who might have lost it so I walked a half a block on and found a thin old man in some dirty robes sitting on the sidewalk. He wasn't begging, but I gave him the money anyway and he gave me a beautiful smile as he thanked me. That small amount of money will make a much bigger difference in his life than in mine, I know.

On that note, I want to offer my own smile and gratitude to those of you who have already started pledging my upcoming Camino by donating to InspireHealth. I haven't even begun my trek and already have a good start. Thank you all very much! To see an updated total, go to https://payment.csfm.com/donations/healing/index.php.

I'll have to sign off for now but will try to post some pictures next time (This computer won't let me). Until then, take care of yourselves and each other and also take some time to savour your blessings! Until next time, happy travels!

Camino Against Cancer

A couple of posts ago, I talked about my father and how I was about to undertake a huge physical challenge in his memory. I also talked about doing the right thing. For me, at this point in my life, 'the right thing' is to try to help people who are battling the disease that took Dad - cancer. I'm attaching a piece that will go out in the InspireHealth newsletter to announce my latest project. I leave in a few days to begin my epic journey. Follow its progress here if you like. And, if you can, please help me help others by following the links in the story below.

Happy travels!
Christine



From the first time I heard about the Camino de Santiago in Spain, I just knew I had to walk it. The funny thing was, when I told people what I was going to do, those who knew me didn’t seem surprised. In fact, I think I was more surprised than they were. As I started reading about the Camino and planning my trip, I realized once again how very lucky I am to be healthy enough to consider doing the pilgrimage. But, as I contemplated spending so much of my savings to go and walk across a country I knew nothing about, I began second-guessing myself. Was I being foolish? Maybe I should wait and do the Camino later.

Then I thought of my Dad. I remembered all the wonderful plans he and my mom had for what they would do ‘one day’, when the time was right. Only they never got to do those things. Cancer took my father from us before ‘one day’ ever came. And when he went, he took with him my belief that there would always be time for what I wanted to do later. I needed to walk the Camino now. I would do it for myself and for my father, for all the things he would never get to do, for all the unlived dreams that linger here like ghosts since he died.

Thinking about Dad made me think, too, about the others who have cancer and may never get to live their dreams. So gradually I realized I wanted to do something more. I thought I could ask people to sponsor my walk and give all the money to an organization that helps people with cancer. That would be a fitting legacy for Dad.

When I looked around at the wonderful groups here that work with cancer patients, one stood out in my mind. One stood out as giving people something more than information and support through their medical procedures. InspireHealth gave people hope. And hope is one thing my father desperately needed during his battle with the disease. InspireHealth gives patients back some control over their lives and the people who go there get encouraging results. Preliminary InspireHealth research shows that integrated care leads to better health outcomes, with some patients surviving up to three times longer. Through initiatives such as their LIFE program, InspireHealth is taking the lead in innovative healthcare service delivery. They are becoming a model for optimal cancer care, both in Canada and elsewhere. For these reasons and others, I chose InspireHealth. Now I hope you will choose to sponsor them through my walk. Together, maybe we can help others live long enough to do the things they dream.

Christine Grimard
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Christine Grimard is a BC writer who earns her living doing technical and business writing while also working on fiction and creative nonfiction projects. She loves travel and the outdoors, which both provide plenty of adventure and inspiration for her writing. She likes to challenge herself physically, which has led her to go dog-sledding in Greenland, enter snowshoe and trail-running races, and take up snowboarding and mountain biking even after the resiliency of youth has passed.

The latest challenge she's given herself is to walk the ancient Camino de Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage route in northern Spain. Beginning in September 2010, she will start her journey from the country's border with France and walk, approximately 800 kilometers west, to finish in Santiago about mid-October. Along the way, she will contemplate life and pay tribute to her father, whom she lost to cancer several years ago.

As a legacy for him, Christine is asking you to sponsor her walk by supporting InspireHealth - Vancouver, BC's innovative integrated cancer care treatment centre. She wants to raise a minimum of $1,600, roughly $2 per kilometer. By pledging your support to InspireHealth for Christine's walk, you can help ensure people with cancer have a chance to live their own adventures; and perhaps you will even help find a way to prevent the disease in the first place.

To Donate (Tax receipts issued for all donations of $25 or more)
Online: Go to https://payment.csfm.com/donations/healing/index.php. Select 'Camino Against Cancer' or write it in the box under 'Other'.
By Mail: Mail your donation to InspireHealth directly at Suite 200 – 1330 West 8th Avenue, Vancouver, BC V6H 4A6. Make sure to say it's for 'Camino Against Cancer' and include your full name and contact information for a receipt.

To find out more about Christine and the journey she's about to take, check out her blog at http://girlscribe.blogspot.com/.

To find out more about the great work InspireHealth is doing, see their website, http://www.inspirehealth.ca/.

The First Test

It occurred to me the other day, as I began to go through the process of renewing my passport that this was the first test of my fitness as a traveler. I wasn't going anywhere unless I got this done - and fast, since my departure date wasn't getting any further away.

There are a lot of rules, written and unwritten, when you travel and there are a lot of rules in the renewal process too. The form was long, even the simplified form, with lots of information I had to read and facts I had to figure out before I could fill it in. Facts like how long had I known my references. One of them has been a friend since elementary school. I did the math and realized it makes me feel ancient admitting I've known anyone for 40 years. "Okay," I told myself, "get over it."

When I'd finally looked up my reference's addresses, found a couple of old postal codes for places I'd lived in and long forgotten, filled out my employment history, and figured out how to present the fact that I had a mailing address but no real home address (does the storage locker facility where all your stuff lives count?), I was ready to take the form into the office.

I got to the building, circled the block for parking, spent 5 minutes with an uncooperative parking ticket dispenser, and hurried into the building. A helpful commissionaire directed me down the hall to an office. A short line of relatively cheerful-looking people waited ahead of me. And the line was moving - great! But my excitement was premature. When my turn came, the man behind the counter asked me a couple questions, looked at my forms briefly before stuffing them into a plastic bag and handing them back to me with a number. Then the same helpful commissionaire sent me upstairs, to the real line.

Undaunted, I took a seat in the waiting area and watched the numbers change on the little electronic board. I was surrounded by other would-be travelers and realized how many different cultures were represented by the people around me, even here in my home country. I smiled, feeling the excitement build and imagining myself waiting in a different environment. Perhaps a train station in far-off Morocco! As time wore on though, I'd given up imagining and was reading the signs and absently studying the people around me. I'd foolishly forgotten to bring a book to read, but here was an opportunity to practice the art of brief conversations with total strangers which is so much a part of travel.

I gave it my best shot. I learned where others were going, what various countries should be on my 'do not miss' list, and shared my excitement about my own plans. Surprisingly, I only waited about an hour before my turn came this time. The woman behind the counter here was very friendly and helpful and gave me a pick-up date with plenty of time before my already-booked flight to Spain.

Unfortunately, she also stamped 'canceled' all over my current passport (which had 6 months still till expiry) and cut the corner off it so that it couldn't be used. I understand the reason for this, of course. You can't have 2 passports at once. But now I had none and I hadn't accounted for the fact that I had a wedding to go to in California in the meantime. Hmmm, try to cross the border without a passport? I don't think so....

A couple of panicked phone calls to the passport office a few days later, with the first person telling me I was just out of luck, and the second one giving me a faint glimmer of hope that I might expedite my passport by paying the extra fee, I was back at the office. I headed into the downstairs line to get a number.

"No, they won't do it," the woman behind the counter told me flatly, looking annoyed. She didn't seem amenable to pleading, but I had to at least try. If I could just talk to someone upstairs. She refused me again, but luckily the woman beside her interrupted a conversation with her own client long enough to tell her to send me upstairs. I thanked them both profusely and hurried upstairs with my number to wait again.

The woman behind the upstairs counter asked me a few questions. I threw myself on her mercy, speaking calmly and politely, explaining the situation. She listened and then left me standing while she went to find out if there was something they could do. I occupied myself with breathing slowly and calmly, focusing on things flowing smoothly. It would be alright, I thought over and over again. And it was. I had to write a statement, pay an extra fee and wait for them to call my references and then me. But scarcely an hour later they confirmed I could pick up my new passport the next morning.

So, more lessons learned that will be handy in my travels. When something goes wrong, be calm and reasonable, even under stress. Ask for assistance. Don't accept the first 'no' - the answer might not change but at least explore the options and talk to someone else if the first person you ask can't or won't help you. Most of all, stay positive and believe things will work out.

Tomorrow morning I pick up my new passport (thank you, Passport Canada!) and head across the border. Tomorrow California and, soon after that, the World!

Reflections on a life

Often lately, I find myself thinking about my Dad. It's been a few years now since we lost him. I still miss him. And I wonder if there wasn't something more that should have happened, some way we could have saved him. I remember vividly the telephone call I got at work that day. My mom and dad both on the line together, something that never happened. And something else new.

"Are you sitting down?", my mother asked. I remember the way my breath stopped in my chest, waiting. For what? For them to tell me it was all a joke and that everything was okay, the same as it was just seconds ago when I was thinking that my deadline for writing my pages was the most important thing in the world?

Instead, they told me that my Dad had been diagnosed with colon cancer and that it didn't look good. My Dad, sounding tearful, told me to look after my mother if something happened to him. I promised without knowing what it meant, without even thinking, still not believing anything could really happen. Not to my Dad, the man who could fix anything, the ever-present rock at the center of my universe who'd made me feel so safe I could do anything, go anywhere. He'd always been there if I needed him, not expecting anything in return except for me to do 'the right thing'.

It seems to me that over the next year I held my breath a lot, waiting. My father went through surgery and a horrific time in hospital - all his belongings were stolen and he had a terrible reaction to one of the drugs they gave him - only to find out the cancer had spread to his liver. He came home and prepared to die. For a while I was angry - with the hospital for what had happened to Dad there, with the doctors for not knowing beforehand that the cancer had spread and for not being able to do something, anything. I was even angry at my father, for having the disease at all. I was a child again, scared, my world out of control.

I am blessed because my Dad and I had the time and perspective to talk about things, to say the things we needed to say and to know how much we loved each other. But it was terrible to watch him give up hope, stop fighting, and let the cancer take him. In the end, he died at home, well-loved, and cared for by my amazing mother, helped by me, my sister, a wonderful cousin who'd lost her own father to the disease, and by a loving contingent of respite workers. He was only bed-ridden for a few days at the end, although he seemed to have shrunk to nothing in the meantime.

I've had other experiences with cancer - friends and family who've succumbed to it or, in a few miraculous cases, beaten it or lived with it well into old age. It is a specter that shadows my life because of heredity, our frenzied lifestyle, and the nature of our bodies. It is the monster in the closet or under the bed, waiting to pounce on any one of us when our guard is down. But people do survive, thrive, and become cancer-free. We are constantly learning - how to spot it, treat it, live with it, even how to prevent it. There is hope. And I believe that's where the difference lies between survival and surrender. Hope.

I wanted my father to do what I had seen him do before when things weren't fair in the world. Rise up and say no, this isn't right and I'm not having it. But in the end, he just couldn't. So I'm going to try to do it for him. Shortly, I will be starting a physical and spiritual journey of my own, traveling to Spain to do a pilgrimage. It'll be the biggest physical challenge I've ever given myself and I'm sure I'm going to love it and hate it and learn an incredible amount. But I'm also going to try to honor my father's memory and the memory of everyone who has left this world too soon because of cancer, as well as pay tribute to the people who are still here fighting. Of course I can't do it alone - I need lots of help. Stay tuned. I'll fill you in on the details soon.

Dad, I'm still trying to do the right thing. Because that's what you taught me. I love you.

Nature reclaiming her own

Today a departure from my usual nonfiction reflections - bit of a fantasy based on a place I went, adjacent to Burns Bog....


The pavement looked as frail as paper, crumpled darkly around the base of the thick tree trunks. A decade or more of nature's litter, mostly leaves and twigs, had composted itself into soil, covering what had been the parking lot of the huge plastics facility. Only where others had walked, men and less 'civilized' creatures, did the pavement show through, forming a path through the guerrilla forest. She had the feeling that if she stood too long in one place here, nature would reclaim her as well, pushing tree trunks up through the thin tissues of her body, wrapping her transitory flesh and bones in vines, so that morning glories would cascade out of her mouth, white and beautiful, if she opened it to speak. Only the birds were permitted to make noise here, their music loud and raucous, asserting nature's triumph over man. Tufts of grass thrust their roots down into the openings in the pavement around her feet, pushing them wider, like cracks spreading across an ice flow, threatening to split open and toss her down into the abyss below.

Although it unsettled her, Elspeth reveled in the place. It was nature's relentless patience at work, the earth's iron fist clothed in soft moss and fragrant blossoms. Ferns grew everywhere, their delicate foliage belying the fibrous tenacity of their roots.

The first puncture hurt a little, the new woody shoot, coming up through the bottom of her left foot. It felt like a pin prick, but rooted her to the ground. She gave in briefly to the urge to run but found she couldn't lift her foot. Then, another instant of pain as her right foot was fixed to the ground. She stood and felt a warmth curling through her, full of new, vibrant life. It flowed up inside her legs and curled between her hips for a moment, pulsing. Then, it burst forth, through her belly, her chest and finally her arms, which were suddenly stretched up, reaching toward the sun, her fingers waving gently in the wind. Her face lifted towards the warmth of the sun and she smiled, just as a bird landed on her right hand. She whispered to it in an ancient language she had just remembered and it raised its head and sang with a beauty she had never heard before. Somehow she knew she was were she belonged now and that nature had taken her back, brought her home. This was where she would stay.

An Olympic Experience

About 3 years ago, I volunteered for the 2010 Winter Olympics. I spent the 2008 and 2009 winter seasons marshaling cross-country ski events in the Callaghan Valley, near Whistler. And each year, I realized anew the staggering amount of work I'd actually committed to for free. Not that I was the only one. There were others who committed as much or more time, effort, and loss of income as I did and, luckily for me, many of them were on my team in nordic skiing. And it seemed worth it to be part of the once-in-a-lifetime experience of the 2010 Winter Games.

As the games drew nearer though, there seemed to be 2 well-defined groups working to make them happen. Those who were being paid and those who weren't. It wasn't just in my sport, and it wasn't just the 'important' people being paid. Sometimes there were paid people standing next to, and doing the same job as, volunteers. The paid people were told not to talk about being paid because the person next to them might not be. And, as I started talking to other people 'working' at the Olympics, it became obvious that some, though certainly not all, of the paid people resented the volunteers. I heard comments like, "Well I, for one, like being paid for my work." or "Must be nice to be independently wealthy so you can afford to volunteer." It seemed that some of the employees thought the volunteers devalued their work by doing their own for free. Now, let me just say right now that I am, by no stretch of the most vivid imagination, independently wealthy, nor are the other volunteers I've worked with. Let me also say that, yes, I enjoy receiving something in exchange for my time and effort.


So, all this made me wonder - was I a 'sucker' for volunteering? Was I being taken advantage of because I was too naive or unenterprising to find a way to be paid for my small part in making the games happen? I wondered this as I packed up my belongings, hoped my plants would survive my absence, said a fond farewell to my family, friends, and coworkers. I wondered this as I stumbled through getting my accommodation sorted out (what a huge task for the organizers!). I wondered this as I stood out on course those first few training days when there were only a few athletes and even fewer marshals. I wondered this as I endured days of porta-potties,lukewarm coffee, and endless sandwiches (though they tried to provide variety). I wondered this as I stood one day in my assigned spot on the course for 4 long hours as the pouring rain slowly soaked through my jacket and left me damp and chilled. And I really wondered it when an athlete from a country that will remain nameless, tore a verbal strip off me using foul language because I told him he couldn't ski the race trails because they were being groomed, even though he'd had all day to ski them earlier. Is it worth it, I thought? Is this the experience I signed up for? The short answer is no.



The longer answer is yes, but it's more complicated than that.

I met people - coaches, athletes, officials, support people, spectators - who came from all over the world for this. Yes, there was competition - lots of it and it was serious. But it wasn't about us fighting each other. There was a sense of camaraderie too, of all of us coming together to celebrate the striving for excellence, the potential we, as human beings, are capable of. It was about talking to people and helping each other, and learning about one another, whether you came from the same country or not.

There were cultural and social events in the cities nearest the venues, the world watched, in person or from in front of their televisions, and I was happy to see my fellow Canadians being unabashedly proud of their country, as well as the countries their families had come here from. The world seemed a bit smaller somehow, a little friendlier.



It astounded me how I could get off the bus at the venue and be greeted by the same smiling face each morning and that that face was still there, still smiling, at the end of the day, even though that person had stood outside in the parking lot in the weather all day. On my own team, there were always people willing to stay later, give each other a break, say something nice, do something extra. We had fun together. It humbled me to work with such dedicated, upbeat people. Athletes, coaches, and other workers (volunteer or paid) made a point of connecting, of saying thanks, of giving each other small tokens of appreciation or of helping out where they could even if it wasn't their 'job'. When there were injuries, or a death, it hit everyone. We were a global community, celebrating our triumphs and sharing the sorrows. It wasn't just about sport anymore. It was about being human and about all of us being in it together.

Was it worth it? I have to say yes. Now the Paralympics are about to begin. And I am ready to be inspired anew.

Writer's High

People often refer to ‘Runner’s High’ to describe that euphoric feeling they get after doing a run. I’ve experienced it myself. And now, thanks to my participation in the 3-Day Novel Contest (http://www.3daynovel.com/), I’ve experienced ‘Writer’s High’. Who’d have thought you can get the same energy, excitement, and endorphins out of sitting in a chair for 3 days straight as you can running a marathon? Alright, I’ve only ever actually ran a half-marathon but this was a marathon of writing!

With a mixture of fear and excitement, I approached the contest weekend. Labour Day. Every year, I’d thought about entering the contest, just to see if I could do it, write an entire novel in 3 days. But every year, the dying summer called out to me, whispering of warm, sunny days filled with friends, outdoor adventure, playing, and reveling in the weather before the chill of fall made me put away the shorts and bathing suits and dig my long underwear out of storage. So every year I thought, “next year” and made my getaway plans. This year though, I have dedicated myself, more than ever, to my creative writing so I did it – sent in my registration and the entry fee. No turning back now because I’m too well-trained to pay the money and not do the work. I told friends, family, and my classmates at SFU’s Writer’s Studio I was doing the contest. I announced it online. I left myself no way to save face if I chickened out. I was eager and excited!

I was also obsessive-compulsive, surpassing even the limits I, in my detail-oriented Virgo brain, knew I was capable of. I painstakingly planned my story, using an idea I’d worked up at a novel-writing intensive course last summer at UBC but had never written. I pulled out the storyboard I use to plan some of my short stories. Not able to find my notes from the course, I started from scratch again. I was on a mission. I wrote character worksheets, created an index card for each major scene, made notes about setting and the plot.

I created a food list, knowing no one else would be around to feed me and I put in comfort foods and ones that needed, at most, a quick few minutes in the microwave to be edible. I bought protein powder with greens in it, for energy. I added chocolate and chips to the list to feed my sweet and salt cravings and even managed to pile in some fruits, vegetables, herbal teas, and sparking mineral waters to keep myself hydrated and thinking clearly. (Later on in the contest, I would realize that thinking clearly is a relative thing, but it sounded good at the time).




I made up a schedule of meals and an overall schedule for the weekend, including writing, eating, sleeping, and yes, even a short exercise break for each day. (Those of you who have done the contest will realize how naively optimistic I was being.) A writing friend gave me some great advice and I took the schedule and superimposed it on my scene cards, adding different colored notes to show where in the story I should be at the end of Day 1, at 6 pm on Day 2 (when the contest website says you should be halfway), at the end of Day 2 and, of course, when I should finish on Day 3. (Knowing this helped me see I was on target and relax and enjoy the writing.)

Then, the first challenge arose, even before the contest started. A friend of mine was going away for the long weekend and needed someone to look after the cats in her house. I’d planned on sequestering myself in my apartment and taking occasional view breaks from the balcony, but she really needed someone. And her house is lovely and comfortable and I’d be able to write in several spots inside it and on her deck, just by moving my laptop around. But I’d be interrupted midday on the Monday to make my way home and finish, once she returned. I weighed the options. I added in packup and move time into my Monday schedule, thinking I should just about be finished my first draft when she got back and I secured her promise to transport me and my car back to my apartment if I was too sleep-deprived or too lost in my story-world to be able to drive safely. And my friend took my shopping list and stocked her cupboards and fridge for me. So, it was settled.




I arrived at her house Friday night. I set up my storyboard and my laptop, turning her dining room into my work area. I had brought a bouquet of sunflowers, a ‘Power Card’ to boost my self-esteem in moments of writing despair and a couple of ‘Angel Cards’ that I picked from my deck – love and adventure (fitting for both my own endeavour and, it turned out for my protagonist too). I found her CD player and moved it within easy reach and stacked the CDs I’d brought with me on the table. I put snacks (raw almonds and a banana) within easy reach. I ensured the lighting was good, the ergonomic keyboard was plugged into my laptop, and I could access my friend’s internet. All good. I cleared a space in the living room and spread my yoga mat on the floor, thinking I’d need to stretch and pry my body out of ‘computing posture’ from time to time. I was ready to start writing. I just needed to wait for the weekend to start.



I took a picture of my computer with the word processing program open – to the infamous blank page. Then I figured out how to set my friend’s alarm clock, climbed into her bed about 11 pm, and fell asleep. I woke about 2:30 am Saturday morning, got up with my brain buzzing, and wrote some more notes on the characters, then went back to bed just after 3. At 3:30, I realized I’d finished sleeping for the time being and got up to have breakfast and make coffee. I put a load of laundry I’d brought into the washing machine. I’m not sure whether I was thinking I had time to multitask or if I was just stalling, afraid to start.



About 4, I began writing. It took me 3 hours to write 5 pages. I told myself the beginning is always hard and it’s important to get it right to set the scene and ‘hook’ the reader. At 7 am I realized I was just too tired and went back to bed, getting up again at 8, feeling better. I wrote, taking many more short breaks than scheduled as I felt my body cramping – behind my right shoulder blade, my neck, my shoulders, my lower back. At various times I stretched out on my mat, relaxed into the child pose, did my morning salutation, a few downward-facing dogs and some cat stretches. I paced around the room, turned the music up full blast and danced around the room, breaking a sweat and breathing hard. I put my hand against the wall at the doorways and stepped through, stretching my shoulders back. I had short naps. I drank litres of coffee, tea, water, and ate lunch and dinner and snacks. I even allowed myself a 25 minute walk outside when it had nearly stopped raining. I posted status updates on my profile online about what I was going through and where in the story I was, to encourage myself and let my friends encourage me as well. It was an amazing support. I narrowly missed letting two furry black and white critters into the house that evening, instead of one - the one who did get in was my friend's cat; the other was a striped skunk who happened to be wandering through the backyard at the same time.




But mostly, I wrote. I allowed myself only 15 minutes of editing, between 5:45 pm and 6, tired of hearing the editor in my brain yelling. “How do you know it’s any good? What about the sentence structure? Do you even remember what you wrote this morning? How about that character development, hey – how do you think that’s going?” I think she was just feeling left out, since I usually give her free rein to jump in any time and overrule my writer. This time though, my writer was in her glory, flying down one track, unsure if it would take her where she needed to go but knowing she just had to go there and see. There wasn’t time to think about it too much. Her fingers flew across the keyboard and she felt great. At times, she didn’t stop typing to think, just leapt and waited to see where she’d land. The story took on a life of its own. The characters did as they damn well pleased. My writer was playing and running and laughing. She was free.

I love being in ‘the zone’ like that when I’m writing and I realized I don’t often enough give myself the freedom to get there. This time though, the thought of the deadline and my schedule kept me from overanalyzing and second-guessing. At one point (on Day 2), I got back from a break and sat down, surprised the story had stopped when I stopped writing. I’d been like a child listening to someone else tell me a story and I thought I’d be able to just read from where I’d left off. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before and I was thrilled because it meant my story was a living thing and that its own momentum would help me carry it forward. At 10 pm, I stopped writing for the day, having finished Day 1 with Chapter 4 and 40 pages.

The next day was much the same. The cat woke me to get out at 3:30 and I chose to sleep some more after I played cat doorman. I woke and started at 6:30 am but, from the start, it felt harder. The weather was on my side though. All weekend it rained, alternating between a light mist and pouring, the water falling with such force from the sky that it bounced a foot back up in the air, coming down in sheets and drumming on the house. I was grateful for the lack of tempting sunshine, feeling safe and cocooned inside (once I turned on the fireplace and the heat to take the chill off). The rain even found its way into my story, drenching my protagonist and helping to make her adventure more challenging.




My friend’s downstairs tenant and his friend came home Sunday afternoon. They left me alone to write except for an hour in the evening, for which I will be forever grateful. For that hour, they came upstairs, poured me a glass of wine, massaged my tired arms, and cooked me a lovely BBQ steak dinner. We ate and talked and I had a break that refreshed both my brain and body. They were wonderful. I wrote until 11:30 and finished Day 2 with 63 pages.

On Day 3, I finally needed the alarm clock to wake up. It went off at 6:19 and I shut it off, noticing the cat was still snoring softly and had no intention of going outside. I woke again just before 8 am in a panic, the way you do when you realize you went back to sleep after the alarm and are now late for work. I jumped up, put breakfast beside the computer and was typing by 8. The adrenaline coursing through me made me an effective writer and I had just reached the beginning of the novel’s climax when my friend and her companions arrived home. It was noon, perfect timing.




From 12 to 1:30 I packed everything up, came home, ate lunch, set up, and was back at my computer by 1:30, about to bring my story to its most exciting point. I wrote for an hour, took a half hour nap, then got up and finished the first draft. Just after 4:30 on Monday I was done the writing!

I cleaned myself up and went for a walk down by the beach. The rain had finally stopped and the sun was out. A walk that usually takes about an hour was done in 35 minutes. I was so high on the experience that I couldn’t slow down. A man jumped down onto the seawall in front of me and started slowly jogging. Despite having to stop and tie my shoe, I stayed the same distance behind him the whole way, him jogging, me walking. He kept looking back at me and was wondering, I’m sure, why I was walking so fast but I couldn’t help it. I also couldn’t help the huge smile on my face. People looked at me and smiled and said hello. Their eyes followed me as I went by. Later I would check myself in the mirror to make sure I didn’t look completely outlandish somehow to attract so much attention. But I looked normal, except for the fact that I was grinning from ear-to-ear and floating about 6 inches above the ground. I was feeling happy and amazed, powerful and beautiful, and incredibly wound up.

After my walk, I came back and sat down to edit. I did a spell check, and a cursory edit to ensure my character’s eyes didn’t change color and no one came back from the dead. I filled in a few blanks for my reader, realized it needed a thorough edit that wouldn’t be part of this initial process and, just after 11 pm Monday, I saved the file.




89 pages and 10 chapters. I opened the bottle of champagne I’d put in the fridge before all this started, toasted the origin of my writing, my friends and family (for supporting me), my characters, and myself. I don’t often drink alone but somehow this time it seemed appropriate. I had given a life to my story and added an incredible story to my own life. I had written a novel!