I wrote a book

It took me three decades to do what I love.

When I started high school, I had a choice between Grade 9 Art and Grade 9 Keyboarding. I loved art, but I chose keyboarding. Instead of learning how to create, I literally spent the class typing out other people’s words in green letters on an Apple IIe. Why? Because I believed it was more practical. My choices have often veered towards the practical. Maybe because we never had much money, maybe because the idea of the Job became fundamental to my idea of survival when my dad got laid off. So I went to college, not university. I took photojournalism instead of visual arts or creative writing. Always a balance between what I wanted to do and what I should do. Then I got older and more adventurous. Six years as a cruise ship photographer gave me a way to travel, but still save money. I married a man who believed in me, and we started a photography business that let me have a career without the grind. But something was always missing. 

All this time, I have followed the careers of people I’ve encountered who create for a living. One paints unique, distinctive landscapes, one merges poetry and art, and one is a clever, humorous writer. I admired them, envied them even, all while I worked toward a different goal. Eventually, I was successful. I had a good Job working five days a week and earning great money as a graphic designer. I was delighted at the time. Reality slowly wore away my excitement. My creativity became a commodity, charged per hour; it diluted until it was a pale, watered-down version of itself. Copy this style. Don’t change that. Dial it back. Do it faster.

I began to dread weekday mornings. I put my head down and worked on getting through my days. Slowly, the Job sapped my will to live.

My husband watched me wilt a little more every day. Then one day, when I came home from work, late and tired and full of self-loathing, he said the words that changed our lives. He said he could apply for a job in Egypt. We could move half a world away. And I said Yes.

Now, here we are, in Egypt, where I could not get a practical job, even if I wanted to. And I just turned 40, a magical number that allows me to give a much less of a f—k about what I should be doing. My days are free. So I wrote a novel. An otherworldly flight of fantasy. I wrote it for myself, but as it turns out, I think it is good. Very good. Good enough to try to get published. I still have a lot of work to do, drafts to write, rejections to weather, waves of self-doubt to withstand, but whatever happens, I did it. I wrote a book.

I’m aware that it might be rubbish. People might hate it. I dread watching someone visibly struggle to find something nice to say about it. But it might be okay. It might be great. In any case, I gave it everything. Sleepless nights, research with dodgy internet service, endless notes, hours and hours hunched over a keyboard (I still can’t touch type, by the way). I might die with only a handful of people ever having read my carefully crafted story. But…

But it's all worth it, because at least I tried.