Page 102 of Sing it, Sam

“Not sure if that really helps you,” Janice continues, “but every book is hard no matter how long you’ve been at it.”

They are? It doesn’t get easier the more experienced you get?

I simply shrug.

“Actually, I reckon it gets worse,” Hannah says. “Once you’ve released one, the expectations are much higher. You have to work harder than before.”

Sheesh. Not what I needed to hear. And I want to be an author why, exactly?

“Okay, let’s look at it this way,” Janice says, her voice bossier this time. “You already know in your heart that your characters aren’t talking to you, right?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

Janice pushes her glasses up her nose. “Well, you know what? One day they will. But they’re not talking to you now. They’re still trying to sort their shit out, and that’s okay. It’s a pain in the arse, but it is what it is. You can’t force it. You want to get your first book right. You want to hit it out of the proverbial ball park. We all understand the position you’re in, because we’ve all been there.”

Nods from around the table confirm this.

My heart warms with the knowledge that I’m not going through this alone. Whilst Janice’s advice is a little ‘tough love’, every woman here has overcome struggles and self-doubt in publishing, whether it be with their first, second, or fifteenth book, in Janice’s case.

“I want it to be perfect,” I admit to the group. “Not just for me. I want my family to be proud too.”

I want to put the best book out there that I possibly can. If it takes longer, so be it. It’s not like I’m on deadline anyway. This is my journey, and it won’t be complete until I’ve created something that my grandmother would be proud of.

“Of course,” Hannah says. “And that’s so important. You care. I can’t tell you how essential that is to the process. The moment you stop caring about it, the second you make a decision to take a shortcut, readers will know that your heart wasn’t in it.”

I push my cheesecake towards Hannah, but she waves me off.

“When you go home today,” Hannah continues, “whatever you’re doing, whether it’s walking the dog, or hanging out your washing, for as long as you can, focus on Sam. Think about how you met, how you interacted from there. All the thoughts and feelings and struggles that you’re wrangling now—use them.”

I close my eyes for a moment and imagine Sam’s smiling face. Sam down by the river. Sam’s lips crusted with cinnamon sugar. The pain yet the sweetness that flickers in his eyes when he holds my hand.

Thinking about Sam will be a piece of cake. Transforming those ideas and feelings into words on a screen will be the real challenge, but I’m up for it. I can do it—I know I can.

“You girls are incredible. Thank you. Here’s hoping I succeed in translating these thoughts,” I say and sigh.

“You sit down at your computer and let it bleed through your fingers,” Leonie says. “Hemingway said something like that.”

“I agree,” Janice says, piping in. She flips over two pages in her diary in front of her. “Now, just checking that we’re all good for Hannah’s practice pitch on Friday afternoon in two weeks’ time? Say two o’clock?”

Her pitch? I look around the table. Britt and Leonie nod.

“Hope that’s okay with everyone,” Hannah says, and smooths the hair from her forehead. “I’ll be having dinner with my literary agent a few days later, so I want to get my next pitch just right.”

I’ll have to take the afternoon off but making up the time over the next week or so won’t be an issue. Besides, I’ll do anything to help these wonderful women.

“I’ll be there,” I say, and smile.

***

After a kayak expedition to clear my head and spending some quality stick-throwing time with Butch, I take Leonie’s advice.

Set with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, I sit down at my laptop. In pride of place beside the photo of Nan is the framed photo Sam left behind as a gift. I take a snap of the image of us with my phone, and save it as my Facebook profile picture. That way, if I get online and get distracted, I’ll have an image of Sam there to push me back into my words.

With each sip of my drink, it’s almost as if I’m unlocking the doors of my mind. With each open door, the words and the ideas flow. My fingers can barely keep up. I’m making mistakes, forgetting about spelling for a change, and just going for it. It’s liberating.

I write about me—the girl who’s trying to make it on her own. The woman who’s going to show people that she can do it and have confidence in her abilities in the process.

After a chapter of my fingers blurring over the keyboard, my brain shifts gear. It’s time to write about my hero. I stare at the photo of Sam and I together and then close my eyes, recounting the first time we crossed paths.

---