In the Beginning

I first began to think of myself as a writer when I was eight years old and my grade three class staged an Easter play, I had written. Exhausted by the effort, I never wrote another word for years. Yet, the idea I was a writer took hold of my imagination, settling into my psyche like a squatter who came and never left, and who chased away all other potential claimants on my head and my heart. Conventional labels—firstborn, girl, daughter, sister, student, friend, semi-friend, woman, wife, mother, Catholic, Canadian, insolvent, unemployable—were locked away in the attic and depended on food trays to survive.

Critically, I never let not writing interfere with my conviction I was a writer. I was not one of those kids who writes stories, stages plays or keeps an immaculate journal. I was one of those kids who eats candy, watches TV and devotes themselves to the aggressive pursuit of personal comfort. On the plus side, I discovered I had an unmatched talent for indiscipline. I still hold the world record for poor use of time.

It never occurred to me I would need to write to be a writer. It did occur to me, however, to buy a pair of green-tinted glasses when I was twelve, so I would look like a writer. I also perfected a moody way of staring, not into the shimmering distance, but to someplace beyond Pluto where lazy minds enjoy their own private planet made of Jersey Milk chocolate bars.

I had stared into the abyss and found Ted Baxter staring back at me. What is the opposite of imposter syndrome? That would be me.

Given my determination to lead an unproductive life, I accidentally acquired the habit of reading with no thought it would serve the cause of industriousness to my future self. Had I known, I would have collected pop cans instead, maybe made the odd statue. Reading was an indolent pursuit that came naturally to me—birds fly, fish swim, I would spend endless days curled up in an armchair with a plate of Rice Krispie squares and a copy of Forever Amber. Ironically, I made a job of it. I never stopped reading, except for time devoted to pretending I was writing.

Writing was a giant invisible rabbit, an imaginary friend whose presence was a constant in my life. A rabbit disinclined to get hopping. A rabbit who preferred to stroll and lie down in the clover, looking for all the world like a real rabbit.

I daydreamed my days away, avoided school—elevated hooky to the level of Olympian sport— resisted all efforts to interest me in group or individual activities and gradually began to think about actually writing, an activity I consigned to someday. My father, who wrote political ads, and believed the arts represented a higher calling, involved me in the process when I was in my early teens, encouraging me to write—ordering me to write, to be precise. He wasn’t a man in the habit of making suggestions. Everyone encouraged me to write, including my teachers, then my professors—though not everyone was impressed. An American priest who taught English at St. Michael’s College at the University of Toronto, handed me back a paper one time, snarling: “You belong in Hollywood, young lady.”

Yeah, well, I resembled that remark. I didn’t care. I waited them all out. I went to work as a magazine writer and editor, conscious this was not the sort of writing I had in mind. My writing life had become my greatest fiction.

Then, one day, without warning or intimation, I began to write what I wanted to write.

I wrote my first unpublished novel in my thirties on an old typewriter in a room with a sloped ceiling, without heat, ice forming on the inside of the window, creditors lined up at the front door, four children sitting at my feet chewing on my shoelaces, my personal life erupting around me like a volcano who likes to tease the girls. Yes, it’s a classic tale of hardship, except it isn’t.

It’s more a matter of a rabbit who finally yielded to its nature and began to hop.

Seven unpublished manuscripts, multiple agents and endless “learning experiences” later, my debut novel was published, Apologize, Apologize!

The first time I saw my fiction in book form was not what you might think. I opened it up, peeked inside and never looked again. I have never sought out my books in book stores, never felt the thrill that many other writers describe seeing their work in the wild. It made me understand how Moses must have felt watching everyone else enter the Promised Land. By that I mean, he probably felt fine about it. Freed him up to keep on hopping.

So, I went from pretending to write to pretending to live. Now, I never stop writing. I write from morning until night, breaking only for meals and for Days of Our Lives, three little dogs at my feet, chewing on my shoelaces.

Occasionally, I look up and see my life standing in the doorway watching me, nose wrinkling, ears twitching, feet tapping. Relax. You’re fine. Have another carrot.