Open The Door

 

My fourth book is called Open The Door and it is a little different. It was a book that came as a new idea, not something that was already drafted or put in notes before. It was a fully freestyle creation from NaNoWriMo 2019. I did exactly what I was supposed to do according to NaNoWriMo rules: I showed up every day and wrote a certain amount of words.

In one way, it was a bit uncertain – will I have enough ideas, will the story fit into the word count and time frame, will I not run out of steam halfway? In the other way, it was liberating. No notes to go through, no limits. I allowed the characters to develop and do their own thing. I am still amazed by how well it worked.

I believe that the template was already in me, it wasn’t sweated over late in the evenings, staring at an empty page.

I knew I wanted to write a different story than before. But I still used references from my own life, mainly to modelling, ageing and (my old-time favourite) Japan. My first three books were about young people, about their uncertain lives, choices, and love lives. I wanted to move on to someone grown-up. I was experiencing motherhood and noticed that I was becoming invisible and that I was changing. I was thinking about the next stages of my life – what will happen after the big chunk of intensive mothering is done? When the little people become bigger and more independent? I will still be needed but in another way.

Another thing on my mind was the relationship between women. I was tired of the age-old formula of love between a woman and a man. The reality of married life might have had something to do with it, I’m not gonna lie. What if my heroine started to question her sexuality? I believe that it happens to many older people. Being brought up in the traditional notion of a nuclear family, seeing how society functions, reading books and seeing movies and TV dramas that always occupy themselves with the relationship between men and women, many of us follow the clues and question things later or never. I wanted my heroine to fall in love. But I wanted a different love. So I gave it to her.

In some ways, Open The Door may seem too easy. Nice, comfortably living people deal with very mild problems. There is no struggle, no drama. On the other hand, there are the subtle questions of life that come when we have the luxury to think about them. What do I want? Where do I belong? What will I do with the rest of my life?

And there are troubles and losses, too. Rachel’s life is far from easy when we meet her. Is it too ideal? I don’t know. This is how the story came to me, I am just a narrator. I wanted a nice story about nice people, who have a good life, home, and security, who can do a bit of soul searching. I probably needed it, because all of my past stories were about finding one’s roots, purpose, home, relationships, and building a career. I wanted to look at the next steps. In 2017 NaNoWriMo (I participated every other year and focused on editing etc. in the year after) my story dealt with very serious issues. It is still waiting for its next stages and it wasn’t easy to write, although, just like Open The Door, it asked to happen the way it did. So yes, this book is about the next chapter in life, it brings us more mature characters who are a long way from knowing everything. Because we are never quite done, are we?

Open The Door has Rachel, a thirty-six-year-old model, as a main character. She is a single mother and we find her worrying about her career prospects. She is well past the average model’s age. She has done well until now, but the clues about her ‘not getting any younger’ are slowly coming. What can she do next?

One of the problems with success is that you may have only one skill and some jobs don’t offer much progress. You are either in or you are out.

Rachel is well aware that many girls from the industry ended up married, the best of them were trophy wives, admired as much as they were in their modelling years. Finding a well-to-do man might be the best option. As luck would have it, Rachel is currently dating a man who would fit the bill perfectly. Only that he doesn’t mean much to her. Nor did any of her past relationships.

Rachel is slowly spiralling into a period of worry and change. She still manages to keep a brave face in front of her sixteen-year-old son, but how long can she keep going? Watching her son’s first love and comparing it to her relationships, she sees a void and doesn’t know how to find the right direction.

Instead of transforming herself into a professional housewife, Rachel manages to revive her career. Just like finding out that she has exceptional hands shortly after becoming a mum and saving her modelling career years ago, she discovers the blossoming market of older models. And it isn’t all. Love comes to her, too. In a very different form than she had expected. Donna, the mother of her son’s girlfriend, becomes her favourite person and it takes a while to understand that what Rachel feels is what she is missing. There may be a reason for her low interest in dating men. There was a lot to discover for Rachel and it was such fun being on the journey with her.

Creative Time

 

Horrible weather, shortening days, noisy fireworks – yes, we could be quite miserable. But it is the prime plotting time of the year. From October onwards, it is easier to sit down by the computer and weave stories.

For me, this year is about the nitty gritty of finalising a project. I’ve been the writer with a drawer full of stories. They had ‘The End’ written at the end, which made them real. Everybody can start a story, right? How many of us finish it? The projects waited their turn. I am the type of person who doesn’t like to see unfinished things. I take the stories out in turn and I am turning them into books with covers and numbered pages and real life. One by one they fly out of the nest.

My fourth book reached the stage of proof copy and during the last few weeks, I was slowly reading it through, making notes. Editing is a slow process and it is hardly ever truly done. I have to decide at some stage that the text is as good as I can make it and I have to let it go. Otherwise, I could sit here forever, agonising over comas, word choices, and – my nemesis – past perfect or past or past present tense goes here???

Monday was a day with no bookings in my real job, a relatively low level of stuff to do around the house and, a silent hurray, the first day of school after half term. I was fussing a little, but eventually, I was sitting down, checking my notes, and making changes, mostly in agreement with my inner critic. It is tedious work. I need to make sure that I don’t omit anything, don’t make additional mistakes, keep the flow of words right and generally improve the story. It isn’t as much fun as other stages of writing, but I am now at the stage where I polish the gem, I can see how it reflects light, where the spark is, and how the jewel will look in its final form. It is slow but extremely rewarding.

This story was drafted in 2019, had a bit of a rest, and came back to me this year. Considering that it is much shorter than my previous two books, I thought it would be an easy journey and I would finish it swiftly. But I didn’t rush it, had to fit it around other things in my life that had to be done, so I am still not finished and I most likely won’t publish two books in one year. Doesn’t matter. Time is the least measurable success in the writing journey. Rushing words isn’t wise.

I finished the fixes on Tuesday and then the book went to sleep. Time issues, as usual. I will give it one more read-through. And then, the world will be ready for my new story. I’ve found out that editing is easier when things change a little. After the first draft, a simple read-through with lots of notes and changes is the best option. When the story feels done, printing it out and seeing it on paper brings out many things that the screen doesn’t reveal so well. After that, reading aloud, however mad I may seem, is another trick that brings out repetitions, sentences that don’t work, and some last, cheeky typos. After all of that, I usually grow tired of the story and don’t want to read it again. So I take a bit of a break. This year, I was lucky, this time came just around summer and since it was our first European trip in a while, I could simply go and have a holiday. Then there were a few weeks of mad working and no chance to write at all…

I sat down to formatting, ordered a proof copy and had the read-through that culminated in this week’s work. Even though I have printed the story before, seeing it as a book and reading it as a book brings it again into a new light and makes the process easier and smoother. We are writers at the end of the day – we love working with books. I hope that the next print will be a proper book, ready to find its readers and that the hard work that had gone into creating it will be appreciated. My line editor (yellow bird) and critique partner (white bird) whose photo adorns this post will eagerly await feedback for their hard work.

The NaNoWriMo Month is here

 

Last year, I concluded that participating in NaNoWriMo would be impossible. I had only recently begun working, everything was new, and getting used to days dictated by work, family and household responsibilities had seemed too much. I was very certain that in a year I will get used to my new rhythm and be ready to participate. Ha!

Enter November 2023. 11 years since my first NaNoWriMo, which I completed every other year. NaNoWriMo has helped me to commit and complete. The intense month of writing had led me to other months of re-reading, editing, proofreading, formatting… Lock-down and NaNoWriMo are the two things that helped me on my way to not only be but also call myself aloud A Writer. Lock-down because I could write without interruptions of visits, travelling, children’s parties, and errands… NaNoWriMo because it is a good challenge.

Last year, I hoped to write a blog post a day and complete that. Impossible. Also, I hoped to get better at networking and promotions. No, didn’t happen either.

The funny thing is, I wasn’t that busy last November. It was just the adjustment from a homemaker and writer to a self-employed parent and writer. I am lucky, my work grew, I gained regular clients and I got busier. I am busy now. I don’t wait around, my diary is filled with appointments. And my other responsibilities and chores didn’t go away either, quite the opposite. So this November, I am in an even worse position to start the novel-writing month. Throughout the year, I didn’t master my fear of networking, marketing, and actually putting myself out there. I had a good excuse. This November, it will be my project. I will not do a daily word count. Instead, I will show up.

When I finished my first novel, I developed a routine of morning writing. I am a morning person anyway and I figured that waking up a bit earlier gives me an opportunity to work undisturbed, get writing done, and move on to my daily tasks with a good feeling of having achieved something before getting out of my pyjama.

I have great respect for people who will sit with their creative work late at night and plough until they really must go to sleep. I can’t do that. If nothing else, motherhood ended my evening activities. Evening classes, movies, dinners out, nothing is attractive enough to beat a cosy lying down in bed. As well as the early morning, in the early evening, when everyone is fed, dishes are done, and the child has been washed and read with, there is a small window where I can do something for myself – read a book, watch a movie or a TV series, anything. It took time to train my husband out of the expectation that I would watch what he wants and when he wants. He arrives at this stage much later than me. And because I like early starts, I have to go to sleep earlier, too. By nine o’clock, I want to be in the dark, with my eyes closed, thank you very much.

I can’t bring myself to switch on the computer and work at that time of the day. Evenings are tiring and I crave quiet.

Two years ago, I changed my routine and shifted my practice to early morning. Instead of writing first, I do my yoga and meditation first. Again, great. Whatever I do first in the morning is the winner. Because my practice had to be fitted into my day, I was worried that I would make it into a chore, or strip it to very bare necessity. Some days, I could only sit, breathe, and meditate for twenty minutes and felt that because I had had a long walk and had been active in the garden or around the house, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have more practice. I didn’t focus so well.

Moving my practice – the thing that is the very essence of me – to the prime spot of the first thing of the day was something that helped me when I began working. No matter what else happens in my day, I know that I have already practised. But it shifted the writing time to later. And sometimes, writing for the sake of writing – the NaNoWriMo style of writing – stays undone. I still edit, proofread, finish, and produce books. Book number four is on its way very soon. But new ideas are only glimpses in my head and scribbles in my notebooks. Their time will come. If I have learnt something in life it is that slow and steady is the way to go. We can want everything now, but it doesn’t mean that everything now is good or achievable or better.

So let me just get on with things. And you do your things with grace. All the best if you are chasing the word count this year.

Yes, I Am! (Solstice Musings)

 I am a writer. Every day, as I edit my fourth book, I see it as a reminder of the fact. I wrapped Edit 3 on the morning of Summer Solstice - how very special. This year, I have a rhythm and structure. I need it because I also have a day job. So finding time to work on my books (important but brings no money) has to fit into work (money) and housework (no money but I am also a house elf or ex-housewife if you wish), is a challenge. Plus dear child who mustn't be forgotten, and my yoga practice which is a part of me and can't be pushed aside, and my general well-being. Luckily, yoga and books are my hobbies and I have no friends. I also love being out, but my job sorts that out for me. I can somehow fit most of the things I see as necessary to do into my day.

I am freelancing, therefore I don't know how busy I will be and how much money I will earn, but to be working again, properly, is beautiful. And I talk about it endlessly. Whoever asks, I rattle on about dog walking, caring for animals, doing special courses on dog behaviour, etc. I am happy when I am with animals and the more I meet, the more I learn and the better I am. While out and about with them, I can think, I can talk without much worry and no dreaded small talk that I just can't do. They don't care.

The interesting thing is, I have been a writer for much longer than I am a dog walker and pet sitter. Yet I am not as able to start singing praise to my writing profession as I am to the 'official' one. When I stand by the school gates with my dog walking belt still attached (because when out and about, you need stuff at hand and free hands, too), muddy boots, and happy expression, I will happily chat about where I've been, what I've seen, etc. I will discuss dogs and their peculiarities. Cats and their moods. Little pets and their habits. I will go to meet pet owners, talk about what I can do, and be at ease. And I love it. This job is ideal, it has the right amount of interaction for an introvert and is a good prospect for a reliable person like me. People need this service and when they see that you treat their very important pet well, they will stay with you and you develop a working pattern. And you keep learning. And you can become something more but still be your own boss.

However, in the morning I arrive at the school gate after a session of writing (or an outline for writing to be done later in the day when other things take my time in the morning). The writer's 'hat' is not as easy to spot. As a title, it isn't as straightforward. I am a writer. Okay, where can I buy your books? Oh, self-published. Not real then. More like a hobby, right? And then I think about my stories and people thinking that they know me, reading my books, and realizing that perhaps they didn't know me. The idea that they wonder how much of the things I write are from my life makes me blush. Putting my face to my books is a challenge. But why? My stories are good and it isn't my problem what people think about them or me consequently. As long as a book makes people think and feel something, the writer achieved something, I believe. If a book stirs emotions, inspires people, and makes them recommend or gift the book to friends, the achievement is even better. But to take the first step, put me out there and push the book forward, that is difficult.

How do I  describe my books in person? I am capable to describe them in my blog or posts. How do I connect my person with the stories? These books are mine, I wrote them and made them into the books they are, from the first word on the empty document on the computer screen to the synopsis on the back cover. But for some reason, the idea that people will find out that I am the one capable of such achievement makes me shrink right back into my shell, lock my lips and be quiet. Which is the opposite of what a self-published writer should be doing, right?

I am doing my books a great disservice. I don't treat them right. If they were someone else's pet, I wouldn't be booked again to look after them. I just let them exist, happy that they are here, but don't let them spread their wings and find their readers. It is the hardest part of the job. Marketing. Self-promotion. I more or less quit teaching yoga because I suck at self-promotion. I knew what I was letting myself in for when I decided to self-publish. Of course, like many, I hoped that it would somehow work out. It won't. There are so many and many books - traditional and independent - that finding your readers is very very hard work. Some people are more suited to it. They know how to communicate online, aren't afraid to go face to face, and promote themselves with ease (or know how to hide their unease). Some people can afford help.

The writer is often a loner, a daydreamer, a person who is happy to spend hours on his own, crafting his stories. Most of us struggle to take the step. Every time I open Twitter, I see lots of people that manage it in a very admirable way. There is hope. But I suck even at online friendships... 

Ideally, I would be like Elena Ferrante - produce my books and stay in the shadows. But I don't have her publishing house behind me... So, I have to be my publishing house. For now, at least.

When I dream about winning the lottery, besides the mortgage payments etc for the nearest and dearest, I see hiring a proper publishing and promotion team for my books, giving them what they deserve and what they need. Not for money or fame, but for them. To do right by them. In the meantime, I will need to adopt a more caring and progressive attitude. I will have to create an emotional distance between me and my books and apply the same energy that helped me build a little job within one year. I can do it. I know how to work. The time is right. So, why, oh why, am I so very scared?

What Makes a Perfect Day?

 Little things mean more than the big ones. My child is growing up very fast and always measures her time from one big thing to the next - after Christmas, she began looking forward to Easter and her birthday, then will follow the summer holidays, Halloween, and back to looking forward to Christmas. All of it is peppered with school holidays, of course. I don't blame her, I was the same as a child. The big days seemed so exciting. I also thought that a graduation ceremony or a wedding are full of meaning and promise of change. So far, only one big day had lived up to that expectation: the birth of my child. Anything else was just a day...

Life is much more interesting in the moments in between the big things that are deemed important. Preparing for Christmas is much more fun because together with the things created for others and the anticipation of their surprise and the fun in planning a menu or finding an interesting decoration, there is the anticipation that goes flat very fast once the event itself occurs.

What I have learned in life is that the everyday little moments are much more powerful and meaningful and that putting too many expectations into certain things or people leads to disappointment. My best days happen without fuss and planning. The best thing is when I actually manage to notice that I had had a great day straight away. Sometimes, it takes time to know. But inside, I usually know. Only that when I was nineteen years old, bouncing through the hills in the Himalayas enjoying a trek to the Mount Everest base camp, I didn't realize how lucky I was to be there and do what I did. I knew that I was doing something that is the best - waking up every day to spend another day going forward, walking through nature in a wonderful land. I knew it was awesome. I wished I could have walking in the hills as a job so that I could do it every day. But I also didn't see it as extraordinary. I was nineteen. I thought that there was more to see, learn, happen, and experience. I lived from the transformational energy of the first special adventure for a long time and I forever know that my time in Nepal was indeed one of the happiest times in my life. Only when I am older do I see these moments in their true light as they happen, not retrospectively. Also, they don't have to happen in such a spectacular background.

Yesterday, I was home all day. After a few busy days, I was able to sort things that were being put aside. One of the major ones was finishing the first edit of my next book. But beside it were other little tasks like sorting out birthday plans for my daughter, menu for the Easter holidays, book reservations, some appointments, orders that were needed but could (and did) wait, laundry, putting away winter clothes and shoes, taking out spring things... Mundane, everyday things. But as I was ticking off the list knowing that my manuscript was being printed so that I can read it through and do some changes, I was feeling like I was having a great day. 

Do I look as if I am now lacking in ambition? I don't know. I had made walking my daily job, I am a dog walker, so the girl who was so happy in the Himalayas is still holding some influence. I knew back then that yoga and writing were important to me and they are still in my life, the major part of my life, really. But I also have a home and a family. And taking care of them is part of my life, too. I can't pack my bag and leave for two months. But I have somewhere to return to, someone who is there for me and with me. I didn't have it back then. Regarding happiness, I've found it. I've never lost it. I had learned that life is about the little everyday invisible achievements, about a break in the evening after a day of work, about the mundane, little moments. They build a mosaic that the one Christmas day or a lit-up birthday cake next to a pile of presents can't beat. The best thing is knowing that you are happy right now and allowing yourself to enjoy it.

Reasons To Smile

                                  

 I can't help but feel happy. Maybe it is because I had a good night's sleep. I had another one last week. Waking up knowing that I had managed to keep just sleeping throughout the night, that the brain didn't wake up enough to make me think, that I was comfortable enough to position myself properly, and that I feel good upon waking, is something I have learnt to appreciate with age.

But there is another reason. This is my time of the year. The time around Imbolc, the more mysterious festival in the calendar, is mine. It announces the slow waking up of the earth, the gentle stir that happens quietly in the background. My birthday is approaching, too. It is the more real new year's celebration for me personally. The wheel is turning. While after Christmas and before the new year I need to hibernate, keep quiet, and celebrate the New Year only in terms of stationery, the beginning of February is the time to stretch, smell the air, be out, look at the sign of life, smile, talk.. and be happy. I am more alive than during the darkest days of winter.

This morning, I was contemplating happiness. How it isn't seen as a natural state, but something that needs to be fought for, deserved, hushed, and guarded. If you are too happy you seem too extravagant, perhaps even ungrateful. But when you think about your average days in which the weather is okay, you are managing your tasks, and are reasonably healthy, you may notice that you are actually pretty happy. Sure, you have goals and plans and ideas in your head about how much better life could be if - (insert whatever occurs). But when you think about that average normal day as it slowly closes, you might just allow yourself to see that you are indeed happy. The little moments that you almost forget are often the happiness you remember only when it is gone. Ask any parent of kids who had recently moved out or any owner of a pet that had passed over the rainbow. We don't see happiness when it seems ordinary. But the ordinary little things in our lives are happiness. They have more meaning than the big, extravagant, and rare moments.

So, with this new Imbolc and my approaching new birthday, I am very quietly happy. I have a sudden urge to start clearing out the garden and check how the little buds are doing, I want to go and find what seeds are left, get whatever is needed, and start planting, growing, and doing. I organize things and think about little projects - something to knit or sew, I want to do things with my hands. I bake and organize the kitchen. And while I busy myself like that, my head keeps plotting. Because stories want to come out, grow, and materialise just like everything else.

This year, I managed to bring my book just in time to coincide with this special time. My book family is growing, I am now the author of three full-grown, published books. I am happily working on the fourth one. The characters are quietly moving into the vacated premises of my plotting mind. Being a writer is part of me, an essential part of me. I am feeling celebratory and happy because I stopped dreaming of being a writer and had become one that not only thinks up ideas, but writes them, finishes them, edits them, improves them, and publishes them.

Sometimes, I think I see signs in the little moments. Like when earlier this week, while the teachers were striking, I walked in town with my daughter. We went to look at the display of soft toys in the toyshop. She likes the little TY toys with their names and birthdays printed on their tags and usually takes way too much time checking them out. This week, as my book was freshly out, the first toy she had shown me was called Star - the title of my new book - and her birthday was my birthday. Of course, she had to come home with us. And how can I not be happy??

My Dear Body

Here is to another year of you and me. We used to be a great team. We've been through a lot. But nothing lasts forever, does it? Forgetting the little episode when you tried to get rid of me at the age of four with a burst appendix (clearly an unsuccessful attempt), you served me well. Until about after thirty. We were strong, flexible, dancers and yoga enthusiasts who could eat anything, didn't know what a headache was, and never had a problem falling asleep. Apart from hay fever, which in some years got pretty bad, we were golden.

Until. The metabolism slowed. The skin stopped being effortlessly great at all times. I realised that getting pregnant and staying pregnant wasn't a given. Sleep wasn't that easy. Not all positions were suitable to sleep in. Thoughts could become really dark when I didn't watch it. 3 a.m. thoughts were introduced to me... I could go on.

Still, we are trying our best. We figured out how to eat, drink and live our everyday life to maintain good general health. Some things we don't do anymore, other things we do more of. We can cope with almost everything. And we are still lucky, we are healthy and strong. Of course, I know that I will change. Besides that, I never was one of the women who want to look like she is in her late twenties forever. To be honest, getting older is liberating. Because we know ourselves better. We stop giving so much f**k about what other people think and listen to ourselves instead.

But I do hold a grudge. I do. Because I went through the first long pandemic and lockdown with a frozen shoulder, got over it, recovered, and thought all was well, and then what did you throw at me? A funny feeling in the other shoulder in the late summer. It was getting gradually worse. Being wise and being through it, I tried my best to manage it. But no, by October I knew exactly where I was heading. By November, my practice was again strongly affected, no matter how early I added all the physio exercises I could still remember. By December, I wasn't sleeping so well. Because there wasn't an easy way to get comfortable. And simply turning in your sleep? That can be forgotten. I have to prop myself up every single time... But it wasn't enough for you, was it? In the most hectic days of Christmas preparations, you also threw covid at me. Why not? The last time you did it was during the Easter holidays, I suppose you are trying out a new tradition, body, aren't you? Well, stop it. I am one of the last people who still cleans her hands all the time, feels guilty if accidentally touches her face, and never ever ever sneeze or cough without covering my face (didn't do it before the pandemic either, basic manners, just saying).

I am over covid, in a way it was OK to have it when I had it because I could just rest after Christmas and slowly recuperate. But the shoulder isn't improving fast enough, it is once again the slow, painful journey I've been already on. At least it isn't my writing and most used side and I don't overcompensate quite so much on the other side (is that the reason for suffering now?). So I am taking it one day at a time. And I still like you, my dear body, and wish us both a very good and healthy/healthier year.