I’ve been trying to think of a way to talk about this for a few days now, but I’m just not sure what to say really. I’ve been working on a new book on and off for a while now (codename: VIOLET); one that I got the idea for from my grandma years before her passing. I started working on it shortly after her death last year but due to acquiring an agent and working on polishing another book, I’ve set it aside.

Truth be told, I’ve been hesitant to start work on it again. I find excuses. Not because I don’t want to work on it–because I do. It’s a tough subject and definitely the hardest thing I’ve attempted to write. I’m directly tied to the subject matter; I have a vested interest beyond wanting to complete another book and sell it.

But the other night, while sleeping away, I had a several overlapping dreams. The last one shocked me awake. It was my grandma, sitting in her favourite rocking chair, holding a hardcover book. She had that little, sheepish grin on her face, the one she usually got when joking around, right after giggling the way she did. I was standing back from her, the edges of my vision all soft-focused.

She held out the book, showing it to me, her face bright and happy, the way she looked before illness aged her beyond recognition. It was a finished copy of the book I’d started in her honour. There was no cover art of anything, just the full title of the novel. She looked so proud.

I went to take a step forward, to look at the book and see what was inside, but she recoiled slightly. She shook her head, like I couldn’t see it. I reached out and as she held it up, the book turned to dust, sifting through her hands like ancient parchment exposed to air for too long.

As I scrambled to grab the disintegrating book, I looked up and saw my grandma’s face. She looked so sad, aging before my eyes to a state of near-death, to the way she looked when I held her hand as life escaped her body.

And then I woke up with a start.

The only way I’ve interpreted this dream is: get off your ass and write. This. Book.

Now.

So that’s what I’m doing. No more lazing about, no more excuses. Besides the fact that my agent wants me to write this book as quickly as possible, I’ve committed myself to doing so. This is a story that needs to be told.

This is a story I need to tell.

And so that is what I’m going to do. Nothing else is going to get in my way until the first draft of VIOLET is complete. I’ve got the memory of my grandma on my shoulder for this ride.

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 9th, 2010 at 1:13 pm and is filed under General Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.