Write Write Write

The last few days have been getting away from me. After months of rain, this island is lying under a great blue bowl at the moment. I should not say that out loud as the ocean has very good hearing and will ship over a thick bank of grey fuzz to stop up the blue hole in the sky.

There were five months (although I was not here for them) of rain--do people know this when they sign up in droves to get married in Hawaii? I think the tourist board leaves out such information. Vera Wang and wet sand do not mix. And so now--the summer. There have been friends visiting, old friends getting together, new friends going to the beach, and a subtle frenzy to each day. It has been lovely, companionable and not conducive to working. In order to get lots done my day has to duplicate the last. Sleep, write, eat, write, teach, read, beach, repeat.

For me a steady footprint of repetition is road to an evenly threaded working week. A racing, running, burst of inspiration--while fun and productive--can also derail my little red wagon. Good books, good friends, good weather--my wagon gets derailed very easily. So, back to routine. My small green flash pot of fresh ideas seems to like routine. It is like holding absolutely still so that the neighbor's unsocial cat will come and lie against your legs.

Scribble Scribble

When I started this novel that I thought would never actually become a novel, the hurdles seemed endless--absurd, gigglefit endless.  The agent, the publisher, the editor and then of course, writing the book.... 

So I decided not to think about it.  After completing my doctorate (well my doctorate but not my revisions) I moved from Pimlico, London, back to the North Shore of Kauai and ignored all that lay ahead.  What better place to write about 17th Century London than Hawaii?  Made perfect sense.  It also was my only option as writing a book that was not yet a book did not pay terribly well.  So back into Kalani, my parents' empty summer house (empty that is until it is rented by hordes of tourists who boot me straight onto my friend Michelle's couch or my beautiful room in my hanai mom Wendy's beautiful happy house by the sea) to write. 

I was lucky and had done a huge hunk of my research for the book amidst my far-reaching PhD research and armed with the Complete 10 Volume Diary of Samuel Peyps and 300 auxiliary texts, photos, etchings and old maps, away we went.

My mother is an editor and she always says in her wonderful mixed metaphor way: "Nose to the grindstone.  Scribble Scribble."  Not looking up, holding my breath, total immersion, a winter ocean, loving encouragement and three years later...a first draft.  The Orange Girl.  One hurdle safely cleared.  Zillions to go.