Another Instalment

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Location: The Fort Garry Hotel – Winnipeg, Manitoba

When I started what became my first novel one cold February evening twenty years ago, I didn’t envision it as a three-part series. I didn’t envision it as anything at all except something to do so I could escape another interminable family dinner. It’s taken two decades to get to this point, but over the weekend, I got within two chapters of finishing the final instalment in the series.

I didn’t expect to write this story in instalments. Frankly, I didn’t expect to write it at all. I gave it up after two chapters, resuming only after significant prodding from a friend. When I realised years later that it was the one story that I couldn’t seem to let go, I forced myself to get it all on paper. And then in print. It was a long, arduous process that I’ve written about more than once over the years. Writing a book is not for the faint of heart and I admire anyone who can make it through from start to finish. After all, I know exactly how hard it is.

I can admit now, more readily than I could even a few years ago, how strange it was trying to figure out just what to do next after that first instalment of what is now a series was finished. I’d devoted half my life to it, after all. It was only natural that I should find myself with time on my hands wondering, “What’s next?” While I was asking myself that question, many people were asking me the same one – not about my writing career itself, but about my characters. They wanted more. I knew there was more, in my head. I’d never planned to write it down. But in the absence of any other concrete plans, I started a second instalment.

And once there was a second instalment, I knew, inevitably, there would need to be a third. So here we are, twenty years later. My career as a novelist, although brief in the grand scheme of things, was obviously a marathon rather than a sprint. The third book feels particularly long, not just because it actually is but because I’m in the fifth year of working on it with the end just now in sight.

I confess: I still don’t know what I’ll do next, but I’m reasonably certain that the answer is nothing. When I was a teenager, I wanted nothing more than to be a novelist. But as I grew older, that goal became less important. When I achieved it once, I knew it wasn’t quite finished yet – but I also knew by the time I’d finished studying creative writing that it wouldn’t be my career. I’ve enjoyed this part of my life, but I’ve also ticked write a novel off my bucket list twice already. Once I finally publish the third instalment of my series, that will be enough. It will be time, finally, to move on to something new.

What that something new might be… doesn’t matter just yet. I’ll figure it out when I get there.

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