I started out writing stories. Later, I wrote a few travel pieces and some essays. I dabbled in some poetry, too, just for the hell of it, but I’m no poet. If it counts for anything, I also wrote a bunch of white papers when I became corporate, and for years, I’ve had a side hustle as a freelance copywriter. And I’ve written plenty of content for the web.
I never took any of it too seriously. I was constantly urged to write more often. People told me I was good at it. Sometimes, I thought I was good at it too. It was easy to do, but it was abstracted in me. Sure, I wrote, I enjoyed it, hell, it was something I needed to do, and I might one day commit to it properly – but I had other things to do as well.
Like so often, it took an unexpected life event to change that. I received a shock to the system, and afterwards, I knew – as I never had before – that existence is precarious and opportunities are finite. I realised that there is an end date to everything and that no matter how gifted you are it matters not one whit if you don’t use what you have. I could let it slide by – that would be easy, after all. Or I could choose to make a stand and do something.
The realisation was scary, but it was also stimulating and fascinating. There was no question what I would do. But even as my resolve stiffened, I found myself drawn into the human mystery of it. Having endured what I had, having journeyed from there to here, I found a great well of material to draw from. I had only to look inside myself to observe the intricacies of human nature, and looking outside, I found reflections of that. I’d always been a good observer, but now I had the insight misfortune rewards you with.
Getting serious about writing meant that I set myself on writing a novel. Till then, that was something I would get around to ‘one day’. In the time before, writing a novel was not something I could conceive of. Writing a story was hard enough. Stories were bloody hard, but at least they were short. I didn’t have the mental stamina to write something as sprawling as a novel – but that was before.
I read a lot of stories. In many ways, they’re harder to write than a novel because you have to be pure in the telling. It has to be a distillation of purpose, which becomes expansive in a novel. A story captures a moment in time, a snapshot of character. The long form of a novel allows for more diverse perspectives. It gives you space to develop both character and story. There’s an arc that encompasses both beginning and end and everything in between.
I was drawn to writing novels because I wanted a broader canvas. As I write this, I’ve finished one book and nearly a second. I can report that it’s not as complicated as I feared. Like most things, once you commit to it, it becomes easier – not easy, it’s still bloody hard – but not impossible, as I feared.
The advantage I have is that I’m disciplined. The ideas come easy. The words are more challenging but manageable. The right words – well, that’s another story. But then, if you sit yourself down and apply yourself day after day, you discover there’s always a way. That’s something else true of life in general.
It’s been nearly four years since I stared at the blank screen and began to type. I’ve learned a lot in that time, and still have much more I can learn, and hope to. It’s been imperfect, but it’s been satisfactory. I’d rather not say it, but it feels like something I was meant to do.
In my next post, I’ll try to explain what I’m writing.