H&M blouse
Mavi jeans (c/o)
Dune London mules (similar)
Chanel handbag
RayBan sunglasses
Vintage necklace (similar)
Linjer rings (c/o) (similar)
Mejuri earrings (similar)
Location: BellMTS Corporate Office – Winnipeg, Manitoba
I had big plans for my third novel. Riding on the high of the launch of my second and, finished putting the story on paper far earlier than expected, I thought I would be able to finish typing the manuscript by April. Of 2019. Fast forward to April 2020 and I’d made it to approximately chapter ten. Of over thirty. But we were all in quarantine at that point and I thought surely, with all the extra time on my hands, I would get through it.
It’s now October of 2020. I’m working on chapter twenty. I confess that typing the first draft swiftly became a combination of typing, editing and adding to it, which is slowing my progress considerably. But also, this is the story that never seems to end. And while that’s technically my fault since it’s mine, I think most writers will understand me when I say that while we do, technically, invent the stories, they tend to take on a life of their own quickly and almost without our realising it. I’m not sure that I could end this story, even if I wanted to. It seems to know exactly where it’s going, and it’s taking me down a long, meandering path to get there.
I’ve said before that this will be my last novel and, as I work through this one, I feel increasingly strongly that that’s true. When I first said it, I think it was out of a sense, more than anything, that I didn’t know what other story I could possibly tell, after this one. But these days, my head spins with new ideas. I know it’s not the lack of them that will keep me from further publication. It’s the time, the energy, the dedication that every story requires – no, demands. At this point, I’ve given twenty years of my life to my three books. And I’m not finished yet.
…meanwhile, I’ve graduated high school, gone through university and held increasingly complex corporate jobs. I have both energy and time on my hands, so I’ve made it work. But the idea of starting the whole process over again from the beginning with new characters makes me feel preemptively exhausted. It was different, when I was in high school. I think I started writing, mostly, out of a desire to escape what I perceived to be a deeply unsatisfactory life. Writing let me into places I couldn’t otherwise access, and let me experience life as people I wished I could be.
I don’t need it for that anymore, because I’ve grown up and into a life that I love. While I admire anyone who can dedicate their life to writing novels, I suspect very few people can manage to do it if it’s not their career. And I know at this point how unlikely it is that it will ever be mine. Frankly, I wouldn’t want it to be. Turning anything I truly love into a job is always a recipe for disaster for me. I’ve learned that lesson enough times for one life already.
So, the story will end… eventually. But it definitely doesn’t feel that way at the moment. Which is undoubtedly a big part of the reason why I’m so sure that I’ll never write another.
I feel you’re right about the things we love maybe no longer being what we love as soon as they become parts of our careers. It must be sort of strange to contemplate potentially not writing any more books. I made a decision about a year ago that it’s pretty unlikely that I’ve ever undertake original research and draft a conference paper or article again, much less a second book project. I’ve been regularly outputting conference papers and articles since 2006 so it was a strange thing to be seriously thinking of never doing it again.
Courtney ~ Sartorial Sidelines
My admiration for anyone who can write a novel is immense. I might have spiral notebooks full of beginnings, but never a middle or an end. I do look forward to your third book, no matter how many more months pass before it’s complete, and maybe, selfishly, I’ll wish you decide to write a fourth.