I’ve read that readers like to know how authors come up with their stories. And for this reason, I planned to reveal where the concept for my original short story, “Dragon in the Mirror,” was created from that was released in 2016. I planned to write this blog post in late December and then found I had better things to do like break down old boxes, clean the fridge, and work on new projects.

Procrastination took over me and then the non-existent post haunted me. I finally attempted to write this post again in earlier January and found that I started several times, stopped, and then threw out multiple versions. As time passed, I found that I snapped at my husband more frequently, began to forget things, and was distracted as I combed through my memories and drudged up events to include in this post. One morning, I sobbed in the shower as I considered whether a YouTube video might be easier. I realized at that moment, it wouldn’t.

This blog post was difficult for me to write on many levels and I know I can’t address all the reasons in a single post. The overwhelming reason though, is that slithering in the back of my mind a question will always haunt me and it’s this: Did I do all that I could to help my family?

Let’s first go back to the original question about where my stories come from. Short stories for me will sometimes appear out of nothing.  I will begin to scribble into a notebook (or sometimes with fingers tapping on my keyboard), and the words will roll into each other that will form words, sentences, characters, and a plotline.  Occasionally, a novel may begin this way too.

However, other times, the ideas are a combination between reality and fantasy; a mixture of traits molded together to manifest a quirky character or in the case of “Dragon in the Mirror,” a terrified and powerless seven-year-old girl who watches as her parents sink into financial and emotional depression who’s named Jayden.

My childhood was riddled with both high and low moments. We were comfortable as far as I remember, for much of my preteen years where my father worked as a Construction Worker and my mother as a Poultry Farm Manager. Then when I was sixteen-years-old, our situation changed when a recession strangled Canada and hit the area I lived in with high unemployment.

The fallout was that my father, the Construction Worker, lost his job. I was not Jayden, the seven-year-old girl we first met in the short story, “Dragon in the Mirror,” who was helpless and couldn’t do anything to ease her parent’s financial burden. Instead, as a teenager, I walked along the thin line between teenager and child that resulted in me flipping back and forth between helping, whining, and being angry about how unfair life was. To this day, I have moments when I’m proud of the teenage girl I was; while at the same time, preferring to hide my face in shame at some of the words I said to my father.

How did my father’s job loss impact me? There were times when our fridge was nearly empty and basic toiletries were depleted.  I remember on paydays, there was a sense of jubilation in the air when my dad, mom, or I got paid because it meant we could buy a few groceries. When the muffler on the car went, my father would fall silent, or would sometimes explode in a fit of frustration. There was also a time when my parents lived without heat in their house.  There were many days my father sat at the dining room table and counted the money he had in his wallet and then would turn and stare blankly out the window. Repeated attempts at asking a question would be met with continued silence from him, and when he finally answered the question, it was a meager reply.

The recession ended eventually but for my parents, their financial worries never went away. For them, financial instability lingered and swelled like a boil over time and was compounded by other events that happened later.

I would like to say I was the perfect teenager. Truth is, I was, at times, exceedingly selfish. Embarrassingly now, I remember one time we went to the mall to go shopping and I stared at a dolphin poster for some time as I contemplated whether I should purchase it. My father looked at it and said we couldn’t afford it. I snapped back, “I can afford it!”

Then there was the time I accused my father of purposely preventing me from getting my driver’s license because he didn’t want me to drive. (I was playing the girl card because my family wasn’t always very liberal towards females. But my father always supported me and encouraged me to pursue a university education. So even back then, I should have realized this wasn’t the case.) Somewhere along the way, either that day or another day, it came out that my father simply didn’t have the money to pay for my driving lessons like he did for my brother a few years earlier. Those are just two examples. I’m sure if I thought about it long enough, there are many more situations that would make me want to run away and hide.

I did feel guilty, though. Guilt for wanting things, for expecting anything from my parents who gave me more than they ever should have, and remorse for attending University in a city that was more than six hundred kilometers from my parents. Briefly, during my university years, I’d thought about dropping out of school so that I could go home and find a job to help my parents financially. When I confessed this to my father, who had borrowed money to send me when my Student Loan funds were gone, he said, “Help yourself first, and then you can help others.”

At eighteen, I left home to go to University, and from that moment on, I frequently cried because I believed my father would die of lung cancer. My father knew my worries and joked, “I’ll probably outlive you.”

One Thanksgiving weekend, a few years after I’d completed University and was married and settled in a different city, I’d returned home for the holiday. I remember a moment when I drove up the driveway and saw my father as he slowly walked out of the front door. There was that familiar distant look in his eye and he also held a hand to his chest. But, there was something else about that moment that left me unsettled; a concern that after years of struggle, my father might have felt no one cared about him.

So, to show our appreciation, I spoke to my mother and brother, and a plan was hatched to throw him a surprise party in the spring of the following year for his birthday. The plan went as planned; almost, perfectly so. My father, overwhelmed and grateful, shifted uncomfortably at the large number of people who gathered to surprise him made up of family and friends. It was a day to celebrate. Repeatedly he asked, “When did you guys plan this?” in his worn work clothes.

Hurrah!!! We had done it! We had shown the man we cared!

My father would die eleven months later of lung cancer.

I’m convinced poverty kills. It kills people through prolonged stress that leads to poor eating habits and results in an increased risk of cancer and heart disease. Or, it will kill more directly through the consumption of cigarettes and/or alcohol that makes it more difficult to quit because of ongoing stress. (Yes, my father was a chain-smoker.) Those are just two examples.  I’m aware, there are many more.

This is where the original concept for “Dragon in the Mirror” came from—from witnessing my parent’s struggle to choose between necessities. The full-length novel continues to address poverty through Jayden however, it tackles many other themes as well.

But if I had to summarize though, I would say “Dragon in the Mirror,” was my attempt to communicate how heart-breaking and devastating poverty can be—especially when viewed through the eyes of a child.

This is how this blog post was to begin:

“Prisoner 45769, you understand the reason why you’re here?”

And then, all the clear thoughts that I’ve had in the last few days related to that story disintegrated into a thousand dusty parts and were carried away to the Land Without Imagination.

I have absolutely no idea why.

But, that’s not true. I know why. My brain’s doing that thing it does: When the stakes are high, it stops being able to work through problems, re-evaluate plans, or find a way out.  My fingers become clumpy and I spend more time hitting the backspace key than putting letters on a screen that might make up a story.

This same “brain freeze” happened to me in University when I wrote my first-year exams and it suddenly occurred to me, Okay, if I don’t pass this test, it’s game over for me. The professors already said half of us won’t be here next year.  Then, I would uncomfortably shift in my chair. I would cross and uncross my legs. Frantically, I would look down at my watch as my throat tightened and my heart pounded in my chest. In desperation, I’d flip through the pages to see how many questions I had to complete, and hunt for easy questions I could answer as the digital numbers crept closer to the end time. Most of the time, my brain unfroze. But sometimes, it didn’t.

Why can’t I write now? Writer’s block?  Maybe. If I were to guess though, I think it has something to do with the fact that I’ve gambled everything I have on a writing career. Both feet are in, and I’m one hundred percent committed to making this work. Savings, be damned. Except now that I’ve given everything up, what happens if I fail? Then what?

Transitions are hard. When I first started writing, the same terror swept across my keyboard when I tried to write the first words for a novel and I just sat there. Then slowly, like a teetering toddler standing on their tippy-toes taking their first steps, I wrote one word and strung them together to form complete sentences and built chapters. A year later, I had a complete manuscript.

Cold sweats drenched my body again when my first manuscript was passed to an editor for review; when I submitted my first short story to a literary journal; and when I drafted query letters to literary agents; and built packages for publishers. Once again, I felt this same level of trepidation before hitting the “publish” button on my first blog post. (Some successes with each new step taken, but a lot of rejection too. And none of this scares me anymore.)

The writing fear becomes overwhelming, whenever I take another fearful step forward. My problem is this: I don’t do well with going nowhere. Going in reverse also doesn’t make me happy.  So, at this point, I have no choice, but to move forward.

I know that right now, I’m struggling to create. What I didn’t realize in University was that my Degree didn’t hinge on just one test.  It was a combination of different parts: writing assignments, tests, exams and showing up to classes.  The mix of all these things, and working hard at them, meant that I did earn my Degree. I have my suspicions that writing might be along the same lines. Some days are easy with words built on one another in a rhythmic movement. Other days, other times, in particular when I face crossing an old rickety rope bridge over ocean waves that smash against rocks, it might be that I need to lift one shaking toe forward before I take one full step.

I scrunched my face at the screen. Movie trailers, yes, of course. But – Book Trailers? I’d never heard of such a thing before. When I purchased Sophie Kinsella’s, Twenties Girl, I didn’t see a Book Trailer when I bought it.  And when I stumbled my way into Chapters and bought Neil Pasricha’s, The Book of Awesome, there was no five minute YouTube video where snippets from the book were flashed across my computer screen of the wonderful day-to-day moments that the book would highlight.

No. For me, I made my decisions by thumbing through the pages and thought: Hmmm, this looks interesting?  Shortly thereafter: ***Giggles***

That’s how I choose my books 9 times out of 10.

“I won’t do it.” I announced to my monitor screen as my top molars bit down on my back molars and worked to reduce the height of them a little more.  My jaw locked. I scowled.

Then the insecure side of my brain, Lesser-Than-I-Think-Of-Me, asked: Why, not?

“Why, not? You’ve got to be kidding me?”  I retorted. “How would that happen? Oh my god, who would do the acting? The filming? How would I even put the thing together?”

You, Lesser-Than-I-Think-Of-Me announced.

“Me? I don’t know how to do it!”

Of course, you do, Lesser-Than-I-Think-Of-Me answered. You’ve done all those videos of picture collages that are put to music for birthday videos and for your other blog, Pushing Boundaries. You can do it. 

Arrogant-Me stood strong. You need to make her go away, she stated matter-of-factly.  You have other writing things to focus on. Don’t waste your time with a Book Trailer.

So, we did what we do best. We closed the browser and walked away because Arrogant-Me was on my side, and I knew it. If people are going to buy my book, they’ll buy it based on what’s written. I held my head up as I walked down the stairs proudly and said, “I won’t do it. What a waste of time that will be.”

***

Over the next days and weeks, my fingers clicked on the Google search button and I typed, “Book Trailers” and I  saw some videos put together beautifully with acting, music, and words that were meant to intrigue a potential reader into buying the book.

It’s marketing, Lesser-Than-I-Think-of-Me said.

“I know,” I said as I slumped down at my desk.

You don’t tend to do a lot of marketing. How will people know about the book if they don’t see it?

“How am I going to do that? I can’t act. I’m not multi-talented. I can’t do everything!” I exclaimed to Lesser-Than-I-Think-of-Me. My eyebrows scrunched together as my heart played that game it does of jump rope causing me to break into a sweat.

Oh, Lesser-Than-I-Think-of-Me said. Any chance you’re afraid of marketing your work? Maybe, you feel you’re not good enough?

***

Arrogant-Me: You can’t hire a well-known actor to play Wyndham for the book trailer.  They’ll never come to Ottawa in December because there’s too much snow and it’s FREEZING here.  Also, you have two more problems:

1) You don’t know any well-known actors.  

2) You can’t pay them.   

“Arrogant-Me, I thought you were on my side? You’re the part of me that should convince me I can do anything.”

Pause.

“Aren’t you?”

***

Music, words, and the cover of the book…and I’ve loaded it on Goodreads and YouTube.

I’ve decided I can’t be only ¼ brave anymore with my writing. Both of my feet need to be in this game and I need to jump, and no matter what happens – I know I’ve done everything I can to fly.

I’m standing in the middle of a winter storm with northerly winds that kick icy flakes into my face scratching my cheeks and stinging my eyes.  Twirling snow dances across the pavement. In the air, the snowflakes link hands together creating white-out conditions. It’s terrifying – because when I’m brave enough to raise my eyes and face the assault of icy air again, I can’t see a thing in front of me. The road has disappeared. There’s nothing in front of me, or behind me. The world has vanished.

I’m waiting for it to stop: that moment when the sun will slide through a cloud and like a flashlight illuminate the faint outlines of buildings and reveal snow covered draped trees to me again. Even for the briefest of moments, would make all the difference in the world: it would be a reassurance that this storm will end.

I’ve been asked what I would do when this happened to me: the moment when writer’s block sets in, and like a thief that’s tip-toed through my home when I wasn’t there stole my dictionary, thesaurus, and in a final assault on my creativity – walked off with my computer in the middle of the night. The bandit has stolen everything I could use to put words together, whether it is on paper, or in a blog post.

In all honesty, I can’t remember the answer I gave to this problem. But I suspect knowing me, I would have used my running experience and said something such as, “I would write over it. Keep writing, no matter what! And then hope, that someday the words would come easier again.”

The experience of running has taught me that sometimes, I need to push on and over, the most difficult days. Not every training day will offer sunny skies, seventy degree Celsius temperatures, and tank top and short-wearing weather.  Some days will be minus thirty-five degree Celsius temperatures, layered clothing, steamed glasses, and ice buildup on my eyebrows, hair and lashes. But those are the days I know I need to get out the door and do the best I can, with the conditions I’m given.

But I don’t always keep running in a race. Sometimes I’ll slow down, walk it out, and wait for the pain in my calf to subside (ditto for nausea). I know this to be true: sometimes I need a little break so that I can return to my 10 KM run, half-marathon, or marathon race stronger than I was a few moments ago. Ultimately, for me at least, what matters most is crossing the finish line.

Writer’s block haunts me. It slithers in the shadows and reappears in the most terrifying and most unexpected times.  It waits for me. Sometimes when I’m at my strongest mentally; and sometimes when I’m at my weakest. It’s stalked me so many times: inching it’s way closer when I wasn’t watching, forcing me to keep my eyes open longer resulting in too many late nights and scrambled thoughts. Then before I even knew what was happening, my ideas and ability to weave stories together had vanished.

In this community I won’t lie to you, there are times I’m scared I may never be able to write another story again. (To those on the outside, I’ll say something different.) Those are the moments I reach for the switch in a room and attempt to illuminate the darkness. When my fingertips hit the light switch and I hear the “click” I’m slightly relieved – relieved, until nothing happens. Because now I know, I’m in the middle of a power outage.

After scrambling around trying to find the one lighter I own in my house, I light a candle and watch the glow because nothing else works. I can’t make toast or coffee, there’s no TV or radio, and if the power outage lasts long enough, I’ll run out of hot water.   Now I know there are some things I should do during a power outage: buy bottled water, batteries, and flashlights; and keep the fridge door closed to prevent food from spoiling. Other than that, I need to wait.

I’ve faced writer’s block before: sleep-deprivation, viruses, injuries, and personal life upheaval have been some of my enemies. With all these factors, when my mind struggles to take care of day-to-day tasks it saps my creativity. My brain busy building to-do lists, for to-do lists, has no room to build heroes and plotlines.

But I continue to move forward as much as I can through it. In those moments when I find I can’t create something new, I’ll work on something old, revise my manuscript, or work on marketing material. Above all else, I keep working, no matter what. My fear is this: If I stop working too long, the ever-present negative naysayer in me will grow louder and my writing adventure might be over.

Eventually, I know the winter storm will stop and I’ll hear the hum of the fridge starting again. With this sign, I’ll flick the switch and the darkness will end with light. Normally when the power returns, the thief shows up on my front step with my dictionary and thesaurus, and good guy that he is, he’ll even help me set my computer up again.  With my coffee pot percolating, and my toaster toasting, I watch as new and old characters walk through my door and my world-building begins once more.