The prime of the young writer's life

I've been meaning to write here for a couple of days now. If I had written here last week, or a few days ago, or even yesterday--it may have been a very different entry indeed. Maybe something about the National Novel Writing Month. Or something a little darker.

I haven't done any writing in quite sometime. It's been a very depressing week. And that hope I've always held on to--held on to without actually doing anything about--that hope and dream of being an author, of writing and publishing and, you know, maybe actually making some money off of it... of creating and sharing that art with others and maybe even being good at it... well, that hope was starting to feel a little old and faded and maybe even juvenile. I think for the first time the tentative first inkling of simply giving up crept into my mind. Not that I was at that point--but I'd never even confronted that possibility before.

Today everything's changed, unexpectedly, and sitting at work right now is painful--like I'm chained to this seat and I just want to tear away and... I don't know, really, but I'm filled with an exuberant energy that really isn't all that common to me. Especially recently. It remains to be seen what comes of this.

This morning I came in early to work to deal with this persistant emergency taking place. I had to run some paperwork over to the old City Hall that now houses the division that does the payment gruntwork for us. There's this guy over there, Mike, whom I'd met earlier this week when I went over, but we really didn't talk much that time. In fact, I found him a little condescending--comments about how young I was and questions about old rock stars I didn't know, though I suppose I should've found that reaffirming, considering that I'd just turned 30. This time, however, we talked a little more--and it's amazing how sometimes just accidentaly saying the right thing can make all the difference. He asked me whatI thought of the job. I answered: "It's okay, I guess. I think what we do is fantastic, though. As a wannabe writer someday I hope to be able to make an application myself." Or something like that.

Well--go figure, but turns out he's a wannabe writer as well... in fact, a published author and with a new trilogy in the works that he's trying to sell. And then he mentions the Ontario Arts Council.

So I left that place after he filled out the paperwork with my mind abuzz about the possibility of applying for a grant. Like I mentioned above--it's been a shity week and several things have gone wrong, but in a way it may have opened other possibilities... and applying for a grant like this (and of course I knew something like this existed but had never done any research and never really considered applying for) now seems like a very real possibility.

I get back to my desk and look the Ontario Arts Council up on the web, and while my chances are indeed slim it's still something real to work towards. I send out for an application package and then get back to work, my mind still faintly abuzz with the idea of taking that risk--of making a real, concentrated effort at writing. While working on a grant agreement to send a Francophone poet abroad, I toggle over to my hotmail. I'd been writing an e-mail response to a girl I know from Chapters. Returning to my inbox there's new mail: "Being Paul Anderson." The name rang a bell--familiar but I couldn't immediately place it. Remembrance came the moment I opened the mail: the author of Hunger's Brides.

I sincerely hope that, should I ever become a published author, I remember to do the same. That e-mail--well, it certainly had an impact. I won't quote it here, not without his permission, but coming at a time when my mind was already open and eager--looking for signs, as it were, and some indication that this isn't just a momentary burst of energy, like so many times before--his e-mail given me a final push. Synchronicity?

Have to get back to work--damn work!--but more to come...