Susana, came up to me looked up to me and smiled thank you for telling my story..as a writer it was my wildest dream come true.
When I- look back I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house, knowing very precisely how many rooms are going to be there in, what kind of roof would be there, where would the wires run, how would the plumbing be the works. The blue print worked out and nailing it would be the first board up in its execution. Then there are the gardens who dig a hole, drop in a seed, and water it, they sort of know what seed it is, they know if they have a fantasy seed or a mystery seed or whatever but as the plant comes up and they water it, they do not know how many braches its going to have and they find out as it grows.
Then there are people like me, who to be honest are just channels. I am not being humble here, because to be a true writer there are so many pre-requisites like fish for the right word, like a fisherman fishes for … those aquatic creatures with fins and gills are called.
Somewhere I realized that the universe had chosen me, to be voice that channels the of stories of the unheard, the voice that needed to heard and write them I had should not judge, I should understand. I had to become that non judgemental understanding person to write that book.
When Susana came into my life I was battling my own demons, I had these visions of women telling me, you promised to tell our story but you are not. To be frank I was scared, but a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.
I am lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words who is willing to create a place where imaginations can wander. These places are built with the sand of memories; these castles are what make the memories and inventiveness tangible. So part of me believes that when the tide starts coming in, we won’t really lose anything, because actually only a symbol of it was there on the sand. Another part of me, thinks I’ll figure a way to divert the ocean. This probably separates the story teller channelling the story from ordinary people. The belief deep in my heart that if I build my castle well enough somehow the ocean won’t wash it away.
I realized everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always, all the time. That story makes them who they are, they build themselves out of that story. That was how my characters came out. I also realized that the novel didn’t have to be one thing, it could be anything that it wanted to be, a vaudeville show, the six o’clock news, the mumblings of wild men saddled by demons, the romance of the impossible on the snow clad mountains.
Yet I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories have no clear beginning, middle and end. life is about not knowing have to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. …A delicious ambiguity.
Oh! About Susana, I shall share her story another day.