A Spec in Time Series

Just less than 7 yrs. That is how long it took to get the courage to get here. To settle into my characters, get to know them. Know what it is they needed to say, what their dreams are. 7 years to get the courage to write. To make the time in my busy life to sit and write. I have had 2 major relationships, both parents,  4 dogs, and a bird end their time with me during that time. I have moved and dealt with a plaque of which the consequences are still reverberating within me. Literally at the moment, as I sit here and type I am 7 days into finally dealing with COVID myself. Like all of this before, I will survive it. At least the porcupine in my throat seems to have moved to a different zip code. 

This is where my novel started to take form. I was just finishing up the bibliography on a  paper regarding herbs for hospice care. In this lovely writer’s cabin in my precious mountains. The words started to flow even though I knew I really had only three more months to finish this paper. I started to sketch out the story ideas, and sections from the beginning to the ending. I couldn’t really wrap my head around it. It was crazy to me to think that I could even write fiction. It had been years since I had even written a poem let alone in my journal. Two months later I was back up at this retreat finishing up the final proofs on the paper and hitting the send button. I sat on the porch with a few friends and a bottle of bourbon between us. One of them asked the obvious question to everyone but me. ‘It was only Friday, we had until Wednesday, what was I going to do?’  

This may be the ultimate reason you don’t drink bourbon in rocking chairs on a deck in the mountains on late October night. I spilled the beans so to speak but not the bourbon. I said I had a little story rambling around in my head, as there was a lot of space there, and that I was thinking about – maybe – oh, I can’t write that type of stuff.  ‘What type of stuff?’ was of course the next question. Fiction.   

There was some silence and another sip. I had actually said that out loud. 

‘Do you know the start and ending of it?’ Yes

‘Do you know your characters?’ Yes

‘Do you know your message?’ Wow, was not expecting that one, but, yes, yes I do.

‘Write an outline tomorrow. With another glass of this fine stuff for my fee, I will look at it tomorrow night.’ With laughter and rye grins we all headed to our respective rooms. 

I am sure everyone else went to bed and slept soundly. My mind spun and my fingers didn’t stop moving across the keyboard all night. I was lost in thought and didn’t make breakfast, though not unusual for me. Some cut and paste. Some more information here and there. A casual walk by at lunch ‘Going to have it ready for me?’ Yes, it is almost done.  

He sat on the floor with my computer in his lap. Reading and reading and reading through the outline. Finally, the first word spilled from his mouth. ‘Wow,’ he passed his glass back to me for more. ‘you don’t have a book my dear, you have a series. Don’t be so shocked, it is a good thing, series are popular.’ This time I drank hard and slowly. That seems like too much. 

‘One big problem, however.’ Oh, no. Oh good! Maybe it is shit and I don’t have to do this thing. 

‘You can’t start here. You must start elsewhere. Find that spot and write up that section for me by tomorrow night.’ I sat there on the floor as he got up and put his glass down and walked out. ‘It is good you know. I can tell you were brought up on very good science fiction.’ and he was gone. 

I DON’T WRITE SCI-FI stomp stomp stomp!  Those were the words screaming in my head. They screamed like that for years. Now 7 years later I sit here thinking: yeah, I write sci-fi. I have learned that if you put even just one unconventional spacecraft; or one alien; or one governmental coverup at area 51, you write sci-fi. It doesn’t matter. It only takes one and well, I might have covered all of this and so much more. 

7 years it has taken to write the bits and pieces of the story spread out over the now 6 books (yes, there are ONLY 6 – don’t push it). Spec sits by my side every day and adds more of her story into my head unless she is off doing something important than one of the others is in my ear. 

7 years to write the first one and hold onto it because it isn’t good enough. 7 years to find an editor, to look for, and get totally daunted by the whole ‘you need to get an agent’ trap. 7 years to be brave enough to say, well it is not perfect, however, you can always correct the 20 mistakes you will find as soon as you re-read it for the 300th time, and others are reading it for the 1st.

Yes, I can say it took 7 years because I was actually writing several books, not just one. That would hold some truth and make others go ‘I get that.’ It took 7 years to get over the fear. That was all that was holding me back.