The sea of words in tempest

Maybe I'll win a contest for most pretentious blog entry title.


May 15 was a day I had privately marked out. It was the day to end the vague uncertainty that had overwhelmed me of late, the lack of direction engendering a lack of movement, being pulled in too many directions, no one pull predominating. Get the picture? A stupid way to waste a month, but it happened, and it had to end. May 15.

Why then? It was the day projects funded by the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council were to begin. If I received a phone call that day, I reasoned, then my 'Ten Towns' project was a go and my summer would consist primarily of that.

If it did not receive funding, then I would blanket the city of St. John's with resumes and focus on preparing for the fall. (Ordinarily I'd attempt an artistic project regardless of funding, but this project required money for gas and lodging).

May 15 came and I heard nothing. The next morning I printed resumes and spent most of the day with my friend Emily, traipsing around downtown, making circuits in the Avalon Mall. I usually have little patience for religious pamphleteers but now a small part of me knows their sorrow.

May 21. My father called. "There's a letter here from the Arts Council," he said. "Do you want me to open it?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, anticipating a polite rejection notice.

"OK. 'Dear Mr. Collins: We are pleased to inform you . . .'"

Well then. Summer plans radically alter in the time it takes an educated man to read a letter over the phone in a pleasantly lilt-y Sudderin' Avalon accent.

My reaction? Excitement at the opportunity, flattery at the honour, dread at the spectre of failure. Laughter fountaining out of my mouth unbidden even as my stomach squirms like a child in a doctor's waiting room.

My novel stands at 47,000 words. The remainder is plotted out, fairly detailed. Once I start this funded project, it will have to be put aside for some time (not shut away in a cupboard, but it cannot be the focus of my time or my creative energy).

So here is what I have done. I have retreated to Placentia. I have given myself 3 days. I have a living room that is beyond the reach of our wireless internet signal. I have a coffee machine. I have an old phonograph and a series of two dozen vinyl records, each dedicated to a classical composer. (My parents purchased these from Sobey's when I was a precocious pre-literate tyke, in the hopes they would encourage me. I have the same hope now).

I will sit in the living room and spew out as much of my novel as I can over the next 72 hours. It will obviously be a messy birth, requiring a lot of cleanup. But I owe it to the work. I want to do it. The way is set.

After that, I hit the road, spend the Arts Council's money, and hopefully give them a good return on their investment.

Onward!