Only Fools...

With one day to myself before I jump back onto the treadmill of life, what better way to spend it than doing something I love? The Easter weekend began with the promise of adventure and inspiration as I played commuter from my little island in the Pacific to be a tourist on the mainland and to explore the familiar through the lens of a visitor.

As I waited for my ferry, I perused the waiting shelf library and picked up a few books to immerse myself during the familiar ride to the mainland. It was a few pages in when a line struck me. Camus' The Plague is undoubtedly not in the same vein as my first novel or the second I am currently working on. However, his comment on how "Men and women consume one another rapidly in what is called "the act of love," or else settle down to a mild habit of conjugality. [And how,] we seldom find a mean between these two extremes" (p.5) made me think deeply about the construction of my current narrative and, perhaps, the absurdity of love. 

Amidst the weekend of confessions, introspective revelations, photographic exposition, and poetry; I was reminded of moments relived through the gaze of salty libations within the Ballyhoo. Straddling time and space within the thread of a story unfolding, I thought of my first novel and how the mirage of epistolary love and navigating relationships, no matter the time, is often a balancing act held together by hope.

As a teenager, the here and now was a more tangible concept. My first novel spoke to the allure of a epistolary relationship as today's space is one where borders are blurred, and distances shrink, almost beckoning an adventurous soul to seek love across oceans and continents. Yet, we forget that beneath the surface of seemingly romantic unions, a delicate web of hope and delusion remains much like the romance of my second novel, which spans three generations and weaves together the tapestry of two families. This web of hope and delusions is a mirage that promises connection but often leaves hearts adrift in a sea of uncertainty despite a generational milieu. It made me think of my characters and how love and longing intertwine the complexities of existence, how they have been bound by fate yet teeter on the precipice of being torn asunder by the march of time. I have played with the chance encounters that led to the serendipity of their love affair, the seeds of doubt, the collision of their worlds, and how those fleeting moments of happiness can quickly be overshadowed by the looming spectre of inevitability, just like the concept of sliding doors and the knowledge that these moments together are but a transient blip in the vast expanse of eternity.

And so I find myself enthralled by that quote from Camus, as it concisely elucidates the consumptive activity of love that my first novel speaks to about lovers becoming adrift in their once-boundless passion and inextricably reduced to nought but memories and impulsive threads. 

It is sometimes hard to live in reverse when writing since this second novel is intragenerational and ends far before the entanglements of the fragile threads of technology and longing. Those late-night conversations blossoming in the digital realm like the cherry trees in spring rife with virtual embraces that bridge the chasm of distance are not something of the past. And, to re-immerse oneself in the whispers of sweet nothings and promises of forever is a space in which the shadow of delusions in the very fabric of love is not easy as it relies on effacing the current reality. Yet, it brings one back to the common thread, hope. 

Hope becomes both the anchor and downfall in both worlds. With the instant gratification of screens replacing embraces and where emojis stand in for kisses, it's easy to lose sight of the tangible realities of love. And so, I am finding myself lost in translating that abstract concept of distance as it was measured, in kilometres and not missed calls or messages left hanging. There is a natural blurring of the lines between reality and fantasy that is less obvious than it is in the clutter of a virtual connection.

So, in that haze, I am rummaging through those delusions to reveal a kernel of truth, a taste of the past unfettered by constructed realities and unearthing the harsh realities of distance and time that can eventually extinguish that passion. I am attuned to reveal the echoes of what could have been, the aftermath of a broken heart, and the balancing act of relationships. It is a delicate dance between hope and delusion, reality and fantasy, and finding solace in the arms of a lover or finding oneself lost in the wilderness of their desires. 

With that, before April is upon us, I will plunge back into submission prep and novel number two.

Bring on the New Year

I feel it looming just around the corner... I thought I would have a little time to recuperate from the busy school year, but it appears I just can’t help but keep a steady pace, even on my break. The heavy deadline-ridden workload that is peeking back at me the closer we approach January has me wondering if I have taken on too much. I do, however, have a few little things to look forward to in the coming weeks and months. I hope these markers of inspired hope will ease the turbulence of this impending tornado that is about to touch down in my world. Perhaps these little moments I look toward will at least serve as moments of reprieve, like being in the eye of the storm. 

While I will balance work and academia, I also am super excited that one of my favourite creative writing classes will be offered in the New Year. This class, although being held at the busiest time for me, is one I cannot resist taking part in. I have loved every opportunity I have had to take part and if you fancy taking on writing challenges with a collaborative and inspiring group of writers, I can wholeheartedly recommend Sarah Selecky’s Six Senses. Until then, I’ll enjoy the blasts of wintery weather with my bestie and wish you all the very best to come...