And these are the Days of My Novel...

So I have finally made it to the end of the first draft of my novel.

It is still without a title but at this stage of editing and re-writing, I'm sure that the title is just a thought away. It will come to me!

If I have to look back on the process, it took just a little over five months to compose. Yet reading it now with an editor's eye has brought nothing but amazement at the ability of the human mind to create unique characters and experiences.

The story set in my home-town of Durban, South Africa brings to life characters from the SA Indian community in a modern-day tale of twin sisters and their life-changing experiences at university. It aims to blend the traditional cultural view that is an inherent part of this ethnic group with contemporary goings-on of the current SA climate. I felt the need to tell this story so that others would learn of a group of people that have moved beyond their early status as indentured labourers. This community is as much a part of South African society as any other. That's what gives us our flavouring as a nation. I call it - adding colour to a black and white society.

With this in mind, I am busy adding Indian flavour through the senses to the story. It's an exciting time, yet nerve-wracking as the process draws to a close. The hunt for a suitable publisher is the next phase - one that I am sure will test my confidence levels as an emerging writer.

I couldn't have written this novel without the support of my partner. Of course, he expects the reward to be great in helping me fulfil a life-long dream. And it is! But in the face of a million other non-believers, his support has been the one that I have depended on the most. I guess it goes without saying then that the acknowledgement page of this novel will be in his honour.

Here's the end of one nerve-wracking stage to the beginning of another...

So everybody wants to know...

I find the responses to my new profession fascinating.
Whenever I tell people that I am writing a novel, their reactions vary by the type of mindset that they carry. Let me explain.

When I first told my mother that I was going to stay at home and write my novel she didn't take me seriously. The next time she spoke to me - which is every week - she promptly asked me how my job-hunt was going. She now asks me about my job-hunt on a weekly basis.

You see, in her mind, writing a novel isn't a real job because you don't go to an office everyday (nevermind the fact that I do go to my office everyday - it's just at home!) and you don't come home with a paycheck every month.

As much as this constant questioning infuriates me, I know she means well and she is just concerned about me covering my monthly bills and like she always says, she wants me to be able to buy something nice for myself whenever I want.

She raised me with the proverbial tough love so that I would be independent and capable of handling all of my issues confidently. I've always thanked her for that, but I guess I am a risk-taker. With the support of my partner, the novel feels like the right thing to do now. I have ignored my imagination for far too long. The more I write, the more the skill grows.

She's not the only one asking strange questions. We recently met with a new priest who came over to our home and took the time to get to know us. As soon as he heard that I was at home writing, that vacant look took over his face. The look that says, "Well, that's not really work. You're just wasting your time!"

The other day, my hubby spoke to this priest again who inquired how I was doing. Hubby pointed out that I was considering finding new work (he didn't mention that it was work in the writing field!). But this pleased the priest who went on to mention something about the idle mind. The idle mind? If only he knew how busy my mind really was.

Yesterday presented a fresh perspective. A young mind from my former alma mater, Rhodes, took the time to ask what the novel was about and when I began writing it. There was no judgement. There was no questioning look. There was just interest and acceptance that writing could be a fulfilling career path. How nice not to have to feel defensive about my work, I thought.

I've come too far to turn back and go job-hunting again. The end of the first draft is in sight. I know that I have months more of work ahead of me, not to mention pitching to publishing houses. But I am willing to give it a bash. At the very least I would've completed a goal that I had dreamed up some years ago. Having the freedom to accomplish that goal is truly a rare gift and certainly worth my sabbatical from the 9-to-5 working world.

Harsh Realities

The Mayhem of Miscarriage

So last year, hubby and I decided it was time for a new addition to our family. We had been married for five years at that stage and had known each other for eleven. Work seemed to be going well and we felt ready as a couple. Much to our surprise, within a month of this decision we conceived. Nervous tension set in together with excitement at the prospect of little hands and feet. But alas, a boating accident in Mauritius saw us lose the baby at nine weeks.

I was further traumatised by the dialation and cutterage procedure that followed. It was my first visit to the operating theatre. I was devastated to say the least.

I spent the better part of 2009 coming to terms with that loss and questioning the purpose of my life. I suppose that is the one positive that comes out of a miscarriage. It forces one to re-evaluate life in its entirety. I questioned my work situation and my relationships and made the necessary changes so that there was less stress in my daily life.

By the end of the year, the thought of trying for a baby again seemed plausible. It took a few months before my body obliged and in March of this year the pee stick revealed two blue lines. I was over the moon as I approached my 30th birthday with a baby growing inside of me.

But alas, I miscarried for the second time a few weeks later. This time there was no apparent reason for the miscarriage. My doctor took blood samples from the foetus and from my body to determine if there was something wrong genetically. She found no evidence of genetic abnormalities.

Instead of bursting out like an emotional, helpless woman, I became cold and angry. I spent the first few weeks after this miscarriage hating God. I called him the puppet-master pulling strings on us humans and having a good laugh when he gave us hope and then took it away. Those were dark times for me.

The anger eventually subsided and I cried a few days. I had tried not to get my hopes up with this pregnancy because I was afraid of a second loss. Unfortunately my fears came true.

Then one day, about two months later, I had two consecutive dreams that made me believe that this had happened to me in past lives. Both dreams revealed that I was searching for my baby and through difficulties, those children eventually found their way back to me. It all sounds so wishy-washy as I write it now, but these two dreams helped me move on.

In April, I wondered how any sane woman would even consider trying to conceive after a miscarriage. I told myself that it was over for me. I would not try again. Yet here I am contemplating what I would do if I found myself with two blue lines on another pregnancy test. Its certainly true that time heals all wounds. I knew a lady once who miscarried seven times before she finally gave birth to a son. I pray that I don't have to try seven times before I can bear a healthy child. I definitely can't handle seven visits to the hospital for a D&C.

Perhaps I have learnt some lessons from my past experiences. Maybe it is just my biological clock wanting a baby in my arms. Only time will tell how this situation that is truly out of my control, will play out. Wish me luck!