"Before you know it, the weeks will become months, which will fast become years. In no time, you'll be eighty-five years old and sitting on a porch somewhere, looking back on your life, and reminiscing about all the many things you've accomplished. And when you get to that point, I promise you this: Those activities and errands that seem so essential right now - composing the company's annual report, passing that English exam, arranging for competent child care - all of these things that seem so crucial will not be recalled with pride or fondness. In fact, you won't remember a single one of them. Decades from now, however, you will remember that ineffable moment when the word counter ran its computery calculation over your book and announced that you had reached the 50,000-word endpoint. You'll smilingly recall that time you were stupid enough to sign up for the challenge of a lifetime, and mighty enough to see it through. You will remember that month, that hectic, harried month, when you made a promise to yourself, when you set off on an impossible quixotic quest, and nailed it."
~ Chris Baty, "No Plot? No Problem!"
Yeah, that pretty much sums it up for me.
I still struggle to recall how I began this thing. I can't remember, honestly, when or how this idea took root in my brain, or how I decided that I was going to flesh it out once and for all with the help of this book. I would, however, wholeheartedly recommend it as a guidebook for anyone who's ever written anything longer than a shopping list. Everyone's got an inner writer. Most of us have kept a journal in our younger years, or keep a blog in this technological age that has pen and paper fast becoming obsolete. For my part, I am never without a notepad in my travels, and can frequently be seen wandering around with a pencil stuck through my ponytail to the point where I have added fun pencils emblazoned with motorcycles or flaming skulls or zombies (the latter two are especially prevalent now that Halloween is on the horizon) to my list of favorite things, which also includes goofy T-shirts, vodka cranberry cocktails, and bands nobody has ever heard of. Which makes me wonder why it took me twenty-eight years to come to one conclusion.
I, in fact, am a writer.
When I meet new people (which is frequently these days), one of the first getting-to-know-you questions is always "what do you do for a living?" I dread it, because honestly, I don't really feel any passion for what I do all day long. I always envied people who could sum up what they do in one or two words: "I'm a policeman." "A doctor." "A teacher." "A photographer." Nobody really needs any elaboration beyond that to describe what they do all day, although some of the specifics (what location they work in, or what their area of expertise is) can be filled in for conversation's sake. Each time I sit down at the keys, one thing that motivates me, aside from the fact that I really am starting to love the story and the characters, is the notion that once I'm through, I will officially be able to term myself "a writer." When I meet new people, or even eventually when it comes time to fill out tax or other official forms, I can answer, with all honesty, writer. And that, to me, would feel really, really good.
Truth be told (or if you listen to my mother), I've always been a writer. I can still quote, word-for-word, a silly poem I wrote about ponies when I was eight. (Hey, I thought it was pretty good at the time.) I won essay contests throughout my middle and high school years. My college English teacher practically submitted an application for my sainthood when I wrote an analysis of the lyrics of American Pie. (Granted, she was a pretty solid hippie, but I'm still chalking that one up as a victory.) I never majored in writing, though. Never took more than two formal classes on the subject. For whatever reason, though I loved it, I didn't want it to be my life. I chose something else... something else that, despite my efforts, never chose me.
I'm not going to get too philosophical here, because I do have a word count to uphold, but I've made a very, very large number of incorrect choices in my life, the most recent of which still has me smarting a bit. It frustrates me to no end that most of the decisions I make don't seem to be right for me. And while I still don't know if I believe in fate or destiny or any of that fun, poetic junk, I do think that those concepts were invented to make people feel better about things they just don't understand. And really, if it makes you feel better, who in the hell cares whether or not it's actually valid? So at the moment, I choose to believe that none of those things that I wanted were really a good fit for me, and that was why they didn't end up working out. I consider myself lucky to be rid of most of them before I'd committed to any big mistake for an extended period of time, because a mistake is a mistake no matter how long it goes on, and better to realize it after a day or a week or six months than to have it blow up twenty years from now and suddenly wonder what you'd been doing all this time.
So despite many of the wrong things coming to an end recently, I've found one thing, at least, that has gone horribly, hideously right. And I find myself falling into something that comes as naturally to me as breathing, and I think, "God, was anything ever this hard, or this easy? Is this really what it's supposed to be like?" Nothing worthwhile is ever simple. But I think when it's right, it's going to feel completely and utterly effortless, despite the dishes you broke and the sins you committed and the friends you lost and the sweat that poured over your face to bring you there. I honestly believe, because I choose to believe it, that this thing came into my life for the express purpose of saying, "See this? This is how right feels."
So whenever I come across a situation in the future that I'm really not certain about, I'm going to look back and remember the most grueling, and most satisfying, month of my life and ask, "Does it feel like that?" If the answer is no, I'm going to shelve it post-haste. If, however, the answer is yes, I'm going to stride up with head high to meet it, hold my hand out, and say, "Hi there, I'm a writer."
Snippets:
Day 15:
“It was an easy match, you see. Master White was thrilled; Ananias was by then an accomplished craftsman, and over the ensuing years built an admirable living for himself. He was patient, though, and by the close of the fourth year... of his courtship of Eleanor, he had accumulated enough wealth that he was able to persuade her father that she should never want for anything in life. Something that a mere apprentice,” he said with just a hint of wistfulness, “could never offer. In the spring of 1585, they were wed in St. Bride’s Cathedral. Later that same year, in the kirkyard, I buried first my father, then my mother, and at length my young sister Agnes, all taken with the Black Death. I…” he said softly, with a tinge of something today’s psychology would have referred to as ‘survivor’s guilt,’ “…having been years out of the home, was spared.”
Without my having realized it, my hand had drifted over to settle upon his. His eyes, having been cast toward his lap, lifted to meet mine. As they did, his hand turned over so that our palms met, and his thumb ran absently over my knuckles. An involuntary shiver ran down my spine, which he met with an answering squeeze.
“What happened then?” I asked quietly.
“I had little time for grief,” he said, “As by then preparations were well underway for England’s first voyage to Virginia. I sat with Master White in his study upon many evenings until the candle’s wick burned clean down to the nub as he went over and over again his list of candidates for the voyage. I tried to ignore the blush that crept to my cheeks even with the coming winter’s chill, or the rattle I felt in my chest whenever I attempted a breath too deep. By the time the sails were lifted, I had taken to my bed with a fitful ague. Master White and his gentlemen sailed for the new world, I having been deemed far too ill to make the journey. Prior to his departure, though, he left me with this.” He held up his free hand, displaying the signet ring once more. “For my years of faithful servitude and excellence in the craft, as he said, he had granted unto me upon Her Majesty’s authority the status of gentleman, and with it a crest that would signify the name of Kendall from that day forth. ‘Virtue,’ he told me, ‘though repressed, shall rise again.’ He told me I’d been as a son to him, and would not say as such at time, but I fully expect he thought I would be buried not long after in that ring, and with it, my epitaph already written.”
I thought of the photograph I had seen, the slab of cold, unforgiving granite upon which his name had been written, and another shiver passed through me, this one a violent shudder. He felt it through my fingertips, and gripped my hand all the more tightly.
“Lanie?” He questioned, his eyes seeking.
“I’m fine,” I skirted, looking hurriedly over to the teacup. “I just felt a little… cold.”
Day 16:
I watched through bleary eyes as he rose, turned to stand before me, and amid my feeble protests, took my hands in his own. “Ready, then?” He asked, and before I’d had a chance to respond, he’d pulled me to my feet. The sudden shif...t of my center of gravity sent me lurching forward in overcompensation, and I held my hands out instinctively to break my fall. They landed firmly upon his chest, and the sudden impact brought me momentarily back to alertness. I glanced up, and was amazed to find his face mere perilous inches from my own.
My defenses were tragically lacking, and my heart found no resistance when it sought to begin hammering in my chest. I had never had the chance to study him this closely before, and now that he was so startlingly near, I found myself completely unable to pass an analytical eye over his features, to imagine with a scientist’s probing view how his prominent, sculpted features must have served him well in his time. Had I been able, I would have marveled at how the high, arched hairline gave him a regal air that gave the viewer to understand, under no uncertain terms, that he was nothing short of formidable. How the deep, murky brown of his eyes took in everything around him, but gave little away. What noble, intelligent words must have issued forth from his lips, urging anyone who was within earshot of them to listen. Quite right, I thought ironically as a tiny part of my mind remembered Marge’s first assessment of him, one that I’d been far too sensible to see. Prince Charming, indeed.
Instead, at this minute, all that I was able to understand was that those same lips were on a steady, surefire course toward mine. And in that instant, I felt a sudden burning sensation welling up inside me, and I did what any sensible girl in my situation would have done.
I sneezed.
Day 17:
I sat before the mirror at my vanity table, an antique that had once belonged to my great-great-grandmother. Gran had left it at the house for me when she’d moved into the condo, claiming that it didn’t fit in with her more modern décor. I’...d always loved it, though, and even in the early preteen years when I’d just begun to spend those extra moments in the morning before school preening, I imagined myself in an earlier, forgotten era as I pulled the brush through my hair in an almost hypnotic trance. It was no wonder, then, that in a dream of an event that must have occurred centuries in the past, I’d pictured myself as the hopeful young mother standing at the ship’s prow, gazing eagerly into the distance for any sight of land. My childhood fantasies had seen me mostly in a bygone era, wearing high-waisted corseted gowns with frilly collars and long, flowing sleeves that belled out below me as I lifted my handkerchief to wave out my coach to passersby in the streets. My prince, of course, was always a dashing figure in a dark suede tunic and knee-length breeches with buckled shoes. Perhaps that was why I’d dreamed up the vision of Eleanor Dare, and replaced her faceless image with my own.
I dragged my fingers through my damp hair, noticing the gentle wave in it as I did. I never had the patience to let it dry on its own, and always forced it straight with the blow dryer. I absently twirled a thick section of it around my hand and let it drop, watching it carelessly unfurl, and wondered what it would look like if I left it to its own devices. I honestly didn’t feel like dragging out the hair dryer, anyway.
I pulled open the drawer where I normally kept my hairbrush and frowned to find it empty. Thinking I’d put it back in the wrong place, I reached for the drawer below it and grasped the handle. The drawer was stubborn, though, and eased open only an inch or so before it stuck. It was hardly surprising, considering I couldn’t recall having opened it much, if at all, since I’d inherited the table. I gave it another slight tug, not wanting to force it. Gran didn’t seem to have much interest in the piece, but I hardly thought she’d be pleased if I broke a family heirloom. The drawer opened about another half inch, and I thought I felt something grating against the back of it as it moved. Mentally crossing my fingers, I pulled one more time, and the drawer suddenly gave, almost coming off the tracks as it slid fully open. What caught my attention, though, was the soft thud I heard on the carpet underneath it.
Day 18:
“This is the part where I give you the ‘I’m not gonna be around forever’ speech,” she continued. “I realize it’s a little clichéd, but you’ve got to allow me that, because I never throw clichés at you. You’re the only grandkid I’ve... got, and watching you grow up was like getting the chance to raise your mother all over again. She was a good kid, Lane, don’t mistake me for a second, but there are things I wish I could have done differently with her. She never really brought your dad home to meet me. I’d look out the window and see him pulling in the driveway on that blasted motorcycle of his, she’d run out the door to meet him, and they’d be off. He became a very big part of her life in a very short period of time. Then she came home one night and burst into the kitchen with big shining tears in her eyes and told me she was expecting you. Your grandfather damn near hit the roof when he heard that, and I thought I might pass out cold right there on the linoleum, but your mother, damn her or bless her, she was happy.”
I’d never heard this much about my mother before, and I was loath to interrupt her. “She was?”
“Oh, of course. Never seen her so excited in her life. She wanted you in a bad way, Lanie. She was always the nurturing sort, and even being eighteen years old and barely out of high school, she wasn’t afraid. And of course she was already crazy about Richie. She’d been planning their wedding all out in her head from the second she laid eyes on him, I’m sure, and having you added into the mix… she said you were a little bit of him, and a little bit of her, and that was her idea of heaven.”
“What about him?” I asked hesitantly.
“Scared shitless,” she replied bluntly. “He’d seen your grandfather at work in the yard a few times when he’d come to pick your mom up, and I think at that particular moment he was picturing the old man swinging a gardening hoe down onto his skull, and to be honest with you, there were a few minutes when I wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t. But he just stood there at the counter, sipping at his coffee, gave Richie a long, hard look, and said, ‘Well, son, I hope you plan to make an honest woman of her.’ And before your dad could get a word in edgewise, your mom shot her left arm out and waggled her ring finger at us. Apparently they’d thumbed through the yellow pages and found a justice of the peace who hadn’t heard of Old Man Corrigan and his menacing gardening hoe, and they’d stopped in and had themselves a tidy ten-minute ceremony on their way over. It was about that time when I noticed a knapsack slung over Richie’s shoulder, and when I asked him about it, he said that his pa had kicked him out. Imagine that. So he came in that night, and he never left.”
I recalled the yearbook photos in my memory, and vivid pictures of them leapt into my mind. I couldn’t help but be entranced by the story. “What happened then?”
“He got a job doing oil changes and the like at a gas station downtown, and your mother settled right into nesting. She was hell-bent on learning all the typical wifely stuff, and she kept begging me to teach her to cook and sew and all that. The cooking I could help her with – your great-grandma Ginny was an absolute natural in the kitchen, and she left me a whole mess of recipes – but I was at a loss with the whole sewing thing, so I sent her to Helen McCoy up the block. And she went into a frenzy, cooking and cleaning and sewing and knitting little booties and blankets and every little thing you can imagine. I’m pretty sure she would have started on your wedding dress if I hadn’t made her put down the needles and get some sleep at night.” I heard a soft laugh, and I only wished I could have been there to see the warm, wistful look I was sure was on her face. “You were her best thing, Lane. You really were. And she knew it. Even before you showed up, she knew it, and she realigned her whole world for you to be right smack in the center of it. She was always a special kid, but you… you made her into someone even I never knew she could be.”
I swallowed a large, aching lump that had risen in my throat. “That’s good to know, Gran.”
Day 19:
The added element of the sudden drop in the slope of the road sent a flurry of fresh butterflies into my stomach, and I couldn’t help but let a tiny squeak escape my lips, my eyes squeezing shut. I couldn’t hear his answering laugh..., but I felt the telltale shaking of his muscles as he did. I made a mental note to take a good swipe at him once he’d dropped me safely back at home.
“Relax!” He called over his shoulder. “You’ve a death grip on my ribcage. Let yourself be at ease!”
“I don’t see how I can,” I muttered, too quietly for him to hear, but made an effort to loose my hold on him, settling my arms and allowing my elbows to unlock. I pried my eyes slowly open, determined to allow myself whatever enjoyment I could possibly take from the frantic flight. The first thing I saw was the pavement as it whizzed beneath us, the painted yellow lines blending together in a steady blur. It was oddly comforting to know that there was something firm and solid beneath us, that we weren’t hurtling blindly through space and time to some unknown destination.
The thought called to mind imaginings of what he must have had to go through to get here. I braved a glance up at him, his focus intent on his path, his shoulders relaxed even as he kept a firm grip on the handlebars. No wonder a fast-moving twentieth century invention didn’t faze him. Being thrown through four centuries in an instant had to have happened at a breakneck pace.
The realization made me feel all the more foolish for having such a deathly fear of the ride. I scooted forward and pulled my spine straight, feeling the aching protest of my muscles, which had settled into a crouch behind him. The road took a slight rise and I felt the bike begin to climb, slowing slightly as its momentum dwindled. Peering over his shoulder, I saw the approaching fences of the Neary farm on the right, and I could make out the shapes of their cows grazing in the field, tails swishing lazily in the breeze. To the left, the thick stand of trees remained unbroken by settlement or cultivation, and even being altogether consumed by the flood of adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I took the time to wonder why old Mr. Neary had never purchased the acres on the other side of the road to plow and settle for crops. I recalled memories from my childhood of Gran taking me to the farm in the summer for strawberry picking, and pumpkins in the fall…
My train of thought was interrupted as the road dipped again and the bike picked up speed. My heart leapt into my throat and my lips popped open, this time to issue forth a startled giggle. It took me by surprise, and the brief tension in Alexander’s shoulders assured me that it had done the same for him. He relaxed after an instant and glanced down, offering me a reassuring smile. I looked up and offered him one of my own.
“Well then,” he said as quietly as he could in order to still be heard over the engine’s roar. “You may be fit for this after all.”
Day 20:
The path rounded once more, and we approached the entrance of the burial ground. “On the day we sailed,” he continued, “I came down into the parlor of the manor to find Master White standing before the hearth that Ananias had rebui...lt, staring up at the portrait of Eleanor that had been her gift to him. He imparted to me that his heart had grown heavy with the loss of her these past few years, for while he remained ever hopeful that he would find her content and well on the island, he also found himself faced with the fear, and the very real possibility, that a more dismal fate could have befallen her in his absence. He drew nearer to the hearth, then, and reached for the pair of pistols that he kept on the mantel. One of these he took in hand, and the other he held out to me. I took it from him without question, as it did not seem to be the proper time for words. With nothing further passing between us, he headed for the door, and I followed.
“We anchored a short distance from Roanoke on the eve of the sixteenth of August, fifteen hundred ninety. We fired our cannon to signal our return and prepared two small boats to brave the treacherous channels leading to the island; myself on one, White on the other. As we made ready for launch, one of the mates gave a shout, and we spotted the smoke of a great fire rising in the distance. It was a sign of hope for some, as it seemed to indicate that the settlers had heard the shots and had lit a signal flame in response. I had a foot set upon the railing to lower myself from the ship, I felt my master’s hand upon my shoulder. I turned to him, and his eyes were set with a fierce determination. I knew without having need to ask that his mind was on the murder of George Howe. ‘Alex, lad,’ he said, ‘You’re as near a son to me as I shall ever have, and if I’ve done you any kindness in these years of your service to me, if you have loved me as I have you, if you have loved Eleanor… I ask that you only do me one thing in return. Should I not reach the settlement, for any reason, I want you to find her. Find her, and see that she is well. And if she is not…’ He did not finish the statement, but merely nodded to the pistol at my belt.”
I fell into step silently beside him at the head of the path, and we descended the steps together. As we reached the bottom, he pulled his hands from his pockets and seated himself slowly on one of the rough stone stairs. Wordlessly, I seated myself beside him, unable to tear my eyes away as he stared off toward the east, where the sun climbed ever higher in the sky. “For twelve years of my life, John White was my mentor, my father, and my friend. He had taken me in as his own during a time when I had none other to see after me, and it was only on this particular evening that he had ever thought to ask anything of me.” He dropped his gaze to glance at hands that had once carried John White’s pistol, and with it, a promise he felt himself bound to fulfill. “I thought it no less than my sworn duty to grant his request.”
Day 21:
“You followed him into the woods,” I began, telling it directly as I’d seen it in the dream. “It was rough and uneven ground, and you nearly lost your footing a few times. He knew it, though, and he almost vanished into the trees. ...All that kept him in your sights was…” I paused, allowing my eyes to fall shut once more, to better see the picture that grew more and more vivid in my mind with the telling. “…the light of the moon. It was full that night. He veered off the path, leading you into a deeper part of the woods, and abruptly vanished between the trees. You followed, finding yourself in a small, barren clearing. There was something about the ground there. It… glowed. There was a boulder in the center of it that rose a few feet from the ground and was flat across the top. You stopped at the edge of the clearing and watched as he climbed on top of it. The wind began to howl, and he lifted his arms and called to it, and the earth seemed to reach up and…” I frowned, trying to give proper description to what I was seeing. My eyes opened, and I turned to him as I grasped for the words.
“…it swallowed him up,” he finished, his lips barely moving as the words issued from them.
“That’s it,” I said, nodding firmly. “That was how it went.”
He shook his head, brows furrowed deeply. “You saw it.”
I felt a knot of dread in my stomach, as though it were actually trying to physically digest the things that seemed to be coming together between my conscious and unconscious mind. “I’ve had dreams,” I said. “A few of them. I saw him, and I saw you, and… I saw her. Eleanor, on the passage to America. I heard her say she was going to name her daughter Virginia. There was something about her, though. Her face just seemed…” I hesitated, not certain how to describe my vision of Eleanor Dare without sounding like a raving lunatic.
He watched me, rapt with attention as he listened. I saw a certain tenderness in his face, and I recalled John White’s last words to him as he was lowered to the waiting boat.
“If you ever loved Eleanor…”
“You were in…” I stopped, wishing I knew how to phrase the question without sounding intrusive. “She meant a lot to you, didn’t she? You leaped four hundred years into the future trying to find her.”
I saw the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, his voice thick with memory, and something else I couldn’t quite place. “Yes, I did.” He turned to face me, and a hand reached tentatively up, his fingertips tracing my jawline. “And in the moment that I first looked upon your face, Lanie, I swear I was certain I had.”
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