I have to write a novel (part one). I have a deadline. A big deadline. An all capitals BIG DEADLINE that looms. That LOOMS. It blocks the sun. It has gravity. It probably has storm troopers. And most of all, it ticks.
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 would ask if this was a conversation. But it's not, it's a blog. 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.
I wrote an essay on 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 that 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).
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, blogs 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.
Tick tick tick.
(Next: Part Two, which is also not a novel.)
