I Have To Write A Novel

By Carrington Vanston // 2005 Dec 14

I have a deadline. A big deadline. An all capitals BIG DEADLINE that looms. It LOOMS. It blocks the sun. It has gravity. It probably has storm troopers. And most worrying of all, it ticks.

This article was originally posted in five parts between November 22 and December 14, 2005.

Part One

I have to write a novel. Not only do I have to write a novel, but I have to write it in time. In time for what, you ask? (Or you would ask if this was a conversation. But it's not. So stop interrupting.)

At the end of high school I had an English assignment to write an essay about the future, or about my future, or something like that. Maybe it was about your future. Whatever. I wrote about me.

Specificaly, I wrote about why I wanted to be a writer. There's no use quibbling or pretending I meant something vague that might include blogger or screenwriter; by "writer" I meant "author," and by "author" I meant "novelist."

My essay was one of three winners for a contest I didn't know I'd entered. My teacher submitted the essay for me, and I only found out about it when I learned that I was one of the winners. The winning essays were placed in a time capsule in the Xerox Tower building here in Toronto (in what was North York back then).

As far as I know, my essay still sits encased in a clear plexiglass shell in the lobby, along with silver medalist Shawn O'Sullivan's boxing gloves, a program signed by the cast of Cats, a book by Timothy Findley, and a letter from mayor Mel Lastman to the future mayor of North York (it begins, "Dear Myself...")

That time capsule has become one of the defining things in my life. That public declaration of my biggest creative goal gave me a fixed deadline to measure my success or failure. For years I've known that I'd one day attend the capsule opening ceremony to claim success or admit failure both in public and, far more importantly, to myself.

I'd be a novelist by that day, or I'd be a failure. Period.

And yet, I have not written a novel. The days and years have flitted by and I cannot honestly say I've made more than the merest progress.

Oh, I've written some things: stage plays, screenplays, poems, blog entries, podcasts, essays, columns, comics, stories, technical manuals, jokes, eulogies, love letters, legal documents, and lots of other lies. But not a novel. Never a novel.

And last week I realized that the time capsule might be due to be opened as early as next year. Or this year.

Or last year.

Tick tick tick.

Part Two

Dinner was served as part of the time capsule's closing ceremony. At my table was author Timothy Findley and members of the cast of Cats. There may have been other people, too, but I was still shaking off the effects of puberty (often literally) so I mostly just stared at the Cats ladies.

At some point Timothy Findley brought out a stack of his novel Not Wanted On The Voyage to sign for anyone who wanted one. I'd already read one of his books and found it not to my liking, so like the snot-nosed brat I was I declined a copy of the book.

[aside]

Yes, I realize that's just the sort of action that would come back to bite me on the ass Karma-wise if this was a fictional tale of a would-be novelist.

But even given my presumably nonfictional state, it was a crappy thing for me to do. Old Carrington often shakes his head at the actions of Young Carrington.

Young Carrington would like to interject that he could kick Old Carrington's pasty non-novel-writing ass.

[end of aside]

Findley didn't have a pen so he asked if anyone had one he could borrow for the signings. I leant him mine, feeling smugly prepared. Please reread the "snot-nosed brat" comment above.

Eventually we adjourned to the lobby to see the sealed capsule and hear some speeches. Or perhaps that was before dinner. I can't recall because this was roughly a billion years ago and there were Cats girls to stare at.

I do remember something quite clearly, however. Something that struck me as I was leaving, and that I've recalled and recounted ever since. And that something is this:

Timothy Findley stole my pen.

[aside]

That's not Karma, that's coincidence. Some other people might call it petty theft, but those would be people less fearful than me of being sued by an author's estate so I'm going to stick with, um, "premeditated coincidence."

[end of aside]

So here I am, many years older and no novel richer, ready to head up to the Xerox Tower lobby and look at the date on the capsule's plaque to see if I'm late. Or early.

Or screwed.

Part Three

Yesterday I trekked up to the Xerox building, camera in hand and lump in throat. Heading up Yonge Street it was easy to spot the salmon tinted tower among the uniformity of apartment buildings and cookie-cutter houses that make up the North York skyline.

The Time Capsule

I crossed the street and entered the looming pink tower. Can a tower loom? If it contains a date that might doom you to an inevitable and very public failure, then you betcha it can loom.

And loom it bloody well did.

[aside]

Yeah, yeah: giant pink tower equals phallic symbol. We all get it. I was feeling unconfident, worried about creative underachievement, and entering a place that's held sway over me since puberty. So don't blame me if I'm a little heavy handed with the symbols of creation, power, and emasculation. It's not like I'm a professional novelist or anything. Thanks for reminding me. Bastards.

[end of aside]

My first thought as I stepped out of the revolving door was "oh no, the time capsule is gone!" Yes, I thought it with an exclamation point. The lobby looked nothing at all like I'd remembered it, and more importantly there was no big plexiglass shell anywhere to be seen.

I'd been worried about this. What if the time capsule was supposed to be sealed for twenty years? And what if it had been sealed in 1986? Or 1985? That would mean it would have been opened earlier this year, or even (gulp) last year.

The ceremony was over. It happened without me. I'd already missed my deadline. The reason the capsule was on my mind was that subconsciously I'd recalled that this year was the unsealing year.

The capsule was gone.

I was a failure.

Or maybe the capsule was around the corner behind the elevators? Oh, right. There it was. Fwew!

The Time Capsule

I hadn't missed the deadline after all. Now all I had to worry about was when that date actually was, and would there be enough time for me to become a published novelist beforehand? Confidently, I looked at the plaque.

And my heart sank...

Part Four

"Not 1986. Please not 1986," I thought. It was probable that the time capsule was to remain sealed for a "time capsuley" number of years, like 20, 25, or 100. So if it had been sealed in 1986 then there was a chance it was due to be opened in 2006--and there wasn't much 2006 left.

"Not 1986. Please not 1986," I repeated for dramatic effect, foreshadowing the inevitable. You're way ahead of me on this, aren't you?

I read the first date on the plaque: "SEALED DECEMBER 3, 1986"

Well, pooh.

I do remember something quite clearly, however. And that something is this: Timothy Findley stole my pen.

The twentieth anniversary would be Saturday, December 3. I was reading the plaque on Thursday, December 1.

December 3 minus December 1 equals two days. I had to write and edit a novel, find an agent, find a publisher, and get through the entire publishing and distribution process, all in two days.

This could be a dilemma, logistically speaking.

It's odd to think I could be distracted at the moment I was reconciling myself to failure, but I was: a blood soaked hand appeared to be floating inside the capsule.

You have to admit that's pretty good as far as distractions go.

Blood soaked hand?

An odd choice of things to preserve. Could I really have been so intent back in 1986 on either Timothy Findley's pennapping or the Cats gals that I'd missed the part of the ceremony where they'd cut off somebody's hand?

I leaned up against the capsule, pressing my face against it for a better look. Peering more closely I realized it wasn't a hand, it was a glove: the red golf glove of U.S. Women's Open champion Marlene Stewart Streit, now crusty and hard.

[aside]

The glove, that is. Ms. Streit may very well remain crustless and pliable for all I know.

[end of aside]

Other items on display were: Jesse Barfield's bat; Borje Salming's hockey stick; December 3, 1986, issues of four newspapers; a platinum record by Sharon, Lois and Bram; a photo of the place where Lester B. Pearson was born in 1897; a box of Trivial Pursuit (huh?); student essays by Julia Basin, Aubrey Kassirer, and yours truly; and 1985 Annual Reports by the North American Life Assurance Company and Xerox Canada Inc.

What kind of boring-ass companies pick their own annual reports as contributions to a time capsule? Welcome to Yawnsville, population you.

And then my eyes were drawn down below the bloody(-seeming) (non-)hand where on a little shelf sat Not Wanted On The Voyage.

Not Wanted On The Voyage

"Gimme back my pen, Findley."

My words came out sounding like "Gimeh buh muh PEH, FIMMY!" because my face was still pressed against the capsule. The capsule was up on a railing/riser, so I had to lean far forward with my legs splayed wide. My hands were planted on either side of the capsule as I hugged it to hold myself upright. The right side of my face was mashed up against the clear plexiglass, my nose smushed to the side.

It's important for you to have a clear idea what I looked like at that moment, because that's how I appeared when I glanced up and saw the security guard looking at me from the other side of the capsule.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked. It may have been the fact that the capsule muffled his words, but to me it sounded a little like "Can I distract you, Mr. Crazy Time Capsule Kissing Man, while my partner levels his tazer at your back?"

I think it was the way he said "sir."

Part Five

I straightened up and wiped my face-smudge off the capsule while I stammered an explanation to the guard. I blurted out a bit about how the rolled up white paper suspended inside the capsule was my essay. I told him I'd been worried that the time capsule might be opened on its twentieth anniversary. I told him about attending the ceremony back in 1986.

By the time I mentioned the Cats girls I realized I was rambling.

"See, that's my name," I said, pointing out the "Carrington Vanston" etched in the plaque as if that settled the matter. I definitely pointed to it in a "no need to tazer me, no siree" sort of way.

He had walked around the capsule while I was babbling, and he looked at the plaque. I steeled myself to explain in more detail about my novelist-or-failure deadline, about this web site, and perhaps even about how Timothy Findley stole my pen but was dead now. I made a mental note not to make that sound like a causal relationship.

Then I realized he wasn't looking back. He was just standing there staring at the plaque. This went on for some time: me looking at him, him looking at the plaque, me not mentioning Findley.

Finally, he turned back to me and said: "It's 2005."

This is not what I was expecting him to say. It didn't have the words "don't touch" in it. It didn't have the words "escorted from the premises" in it. It didn't even have that ominous "sir" in it. I was confused.

This is a precise transcription of the next exchange between us, word for word as far as I can recall:

Me: "I'msorrywhat?" (said as one word)

Him: "Pardon?"

Me: "I mean, pardon?"

Him: "What?"

Me: "What what? I mean, which what? What did I say, or what did you say?"

Him: "It's 2005."

Me: "Oh. Okay."

[aside]

At this point my mind wandered, as it often does. I was reminded of a favorite gag from high school. I used to rush up to people in malls and ask them what time it was. When they'd look at their watch I'd say "No, the year? What YEAR is it?!?" When they'd tell me the year I'd say something like "So it worked! It WORKED!" and then I'd run away laughing triumphantly. I used to love doing that.

[end of aside]

Him: "It's 2005, not 2006."

Oh, right. So it was.

The rest of the exchange with the security guard was standard "please don't hug and kiss the capsule" stuff that we've all heard before, then he left me to it. Strange. I would've kept my eye on someone like me.

I'd like to say I had mixed up the year because I'd gotten so caught up in the "twentieth anniversary" idea. But the reality is I often get the year wrong anyway. My cheques still have "19__" on them, which I cross out on the rare times I need to use one and write in some vaguely early 21st Century-ish year. I'm usually not off by more than one or two.

I'd also like to mention that of the scores of you who have written in during this extended blog story only one of you pointed out the errant year. (Here's a shout-out to sharp-eyed Postmodern Sass, one of my favorite bloggers and a fellow Torontonian.)

So it was 2005 (and for all I know it still is). It had only been 19 years since my essay had been sequestered. The twentieth anniversary wasn't for a full year and two days.

I had tons of time!

In fact, I had even more time than you might think because I'd already read the true uncorking date on the plaque. I'd read it as soon as I got there, of course, but I thought it would be more fun to string you along a bit on the blog. I'm a meanie.

Below the disappointing 1986 date on the plaque was the all-important second date, the date of my deadline:

The Plaque

"TO BE OPENED DECEMBER 3, 2011."

I had six years and two days to go! Six long wonderful amazing incredible and most important of all probably sufficient years.

It was the perfect result. Much less and I'd likely have no chance to get a novel written and published in time. Much more and I'd probably slip back into the lazy "oh there's lots of time" mentality that got me into this mess in the first place.

The giant pink tower didn't seem nearly so intimidating when I left, but that's probably because it was cold out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a novel to write.

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I Have To Write A Novel

By Carrington Vanston // 2005 Dec 14

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