The UNglamorous Life of a Debut Novelist

As a reader, I pictured authors as living either 1) in a poet’s turret or 2) in a nice house with an office that featured floor to ceiling bookcases and perhaps an old underwood typewriter on a shelf, just for aesthetics.

Well, I am sure those abodes do exist.

But this author lives in a small, rented two bedroom apartment that was built in the late sixties/early seventies; three people live here, and there is only one bathroom. The unit still uses fuses, and there is a psychedelic yellow plastic intercom system on the living room wall that doesn’t work. (Shh. Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I play with it and say things like, “Houston, we have a problem.”)

Anyhoo, we rented the unit “as is.”

I do not have a ‘room of my own’ to write. I do not have an office. I have a dinette area that I make work. I have good neighbours, and my street is close to both a nature reserve and farmland. I sometimes hear roosters crow, and geese fly by overhead to land at a nearby pond.

I like my home. I like my small town. But I do not like renovations.

A few weeks ago, a bubble of paint appeared over the shower stall, and I thought nothing much of it. Just thought I needed to paint. I’d assumed it was a cement ceiling. WRONG. I touched the thing, and water and debris fell into the tub.

Long story short, we are getting a whole new bathroom. Yay AND boo. This was the landlord’s choice– not mine. (I’ll explain in a minute.)

I only wanted the pipes and ceiling fixed, regardless of our old tub, ugly floor, and vintage tiles. The thing is they were also concerned the drain will soon fail on MY tub and cause damage to the unit below mine. It had to be done.

We’ve been without an in-unit shower or bath for three days. The contractor’s vehicle was having issues and so there was a delay to the tub surround being installed.

So, while I try to work on book two, and market book one, workers are coming through my unit. They demoed my washroom. Saws buzzed, and many a curse word was spewed when the toilet shut-off valve wouldn’t cooperate.

Verity is not minding taking showers in an empty third floor unit, as it reminds her of camp and needing to go to the ‘shower house.’ Frankie, our rescue cat, is a bag of nerves, and she’s yowling at night because everything is still displaced.

(Our rooms look a bit hoarder-ish, with boxes of washroom supplies piled in corners and boot trays moved from the hall to the living room. No. I won’t share photos of the odd clutter.)

I still work a part time job too, and I’m back to getting up at 3:00 a.m. (Impossible to nap right now.)

I do love writing. And I’m sure one day I will laugh about my book launch as the ceiling LITERALLY caved in on me.

ONWARD and UPWARD. Tallyho!