The Unusual Path Of A First Time Author

It's interesting in life how many times we reinvent. Our bodies are cellular different every seven years, so science tells us. So, in essence, a brand new you. We've often had several careers, and don't get me started on the vast array of "loves of my life" I have fallen in and out of love with. I have had many, many lives, and every one of them was extraordinary, varied and ripe with lessons.

In my early twenties, I had a career in the glitzy cosmetic retail industry, and then I spent over a quarter century deep in the world of advertising and production. Hell, I even produced a feature film that opened TIFF. I moved countries and pretty much shed most of the labels that defined who I was to the world and, truthfully, to me as well. This isn't some sort of right-to-brag CV but rather an introduction to my thinking that anything is possible when no one tells you no.

So, here I am again…reinventing. This Time on the Unusual Path Of A First Time Author

Next month my first book, In Search of Mr Darcy: Lessons Learnt In The Pursuit of Happily Ever After, will be out in the universe—more on that in my next blog.

When I sat down to write my book, a talent that had not publicly been acknowledged since Miss Bonvalane, my grade two teacher, accused me of plagiarising my extraordinary poem about the joy of hotdog buns, I had absolutely zero, and I do mean zero notion that this was something I could/should/would do, much have the talent for. I had effectively spent my career managing other people's creative talents but never my own. I didn't know I had any.

So I began to write, never once thinking this was an outrageous, insane idea. Why? Because I didn't ask anyone's opinion, I did not seek approval from my friends or family. I just started writing, for me. What I began to write was very different from what I finished. But isn't that the glorious thing about creating something? It tells you what it needs to be. Living alone in the height of Covid, I immersed myself in the writing process. My routine was up early, and anyone who knows me can attest that that alone was a personal breakthrough. With a latte in hand, I would write. When I wasn't writing, say, soaking in my bathtub, I was listening to podcasts, audiobooks or Masterclasses about writing, with a personal bias to the humorous nonfiction writers, my queens, Nora Ephron and David Sedaris. I did nothing else for the better part of two years. I was afraid to stop. Terrified that if I did anything else, and I mean anything, I would not be able to start again. And you know what. That is precisely what happened.

During this time, with probably 80,000 words behind me, I flew back to Toronto and moved into the condo I had purchased for my parents years before. A condo they had sadly vacated with their deaths. There, I was quarantined in a lower-level apartment with friends bringing me groceries, Starbucks and wine. Too afraid to come in, so they would leave it outside my window. The fear was thick and contagious as I found myself extremely anxious as I stood barefoot, outside the apartment, toes in the grass, just to be reminded it was summer.

Maybe it was the Canadian viral anxiety, far more acute than London, or perhaps it was sitting with the ghosts of my parents surrounded by dusty Tupperware boxes filled with decades worth of memories. But not only could I not write, but I also could not bare to look at a single word I had written. I was paralysed.

This did not end when I got out of quarantine… or went to the cottage…or hugged people… or even went back to London. This went on for five months, me unable to open my computer and look at one single word that I had written.

Then I did something outrageous. I started talking to my dead parents…and Nora Ephron, and Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde and to any other writer who would pop into my consciousness before I closed my eyes. I didn't ask them for help, I thanked them for their help. I thanked them for their words, their stories, and their inspiration. Sometimes these evening conservations went on for hours as I visualised myself ripping open a cardboard box with my finished hardcover books packed inside. I saw myself in a red dress in a crowded bookstore joyously signing copies for eager readers. I could see the end, I just had to get past the middle. So I threw some money at the problem. A suggestion I’m pretty sure came one night from my dead father, pragmatic, even in his afterlife. I booked a five-day online nonfiction course. I knew enough of my nature that if I put cash down, I'd show up. And show up I did.

In that course, an editor took me aside and said, Christina, when you are ready, bring me your manuscript. Bring it directly to me. And the rest, they say, is history.

I finished and sold my book, and it comes out next month. And I am super proud of this accomplishment. But if you take anything from this, don't ask permission to do something completely insane, even from yourself. I never heard no, mostly because I never asked the questions. Should I write a book? Start a production company? Produce a film? Am I good enough? Am I too young? Am I too old? Will anyone like it? I wrote it because it needed to come out, and I got out of my own way and let it happen.

So call upon those inspiring spirits who give you permission, and thank them. Visualise the ending even if you can't quite see the path. No is not the answer to all those unasked questions. Those treasures buried deep inside of you are hoping you'll say yes.

TO LEARN MORE, PLEASE VISIT MY AMAZON AUTHOR’S PAGE.