I dreamt, when I was a kid, that I would write a novel someday. Exercise my right brain. No idea then what about or how to go about it.
As years rolled quickly by, I doubted I could write fiction. I believed I had neither the imagination nor the gift for it, having trained in a field that honed skills and the mindset to stick to unvarnished facts, cementing the primacy of my left brain.
I have always been in awe of people who can produce a phrase, well-turned and loaded with meaning. It is a rare gift endowed in a chosen few, even among those who live by writing. So, I read works of those who can and envy what they can do and I cannot.
Expressing oneself is probably a human need and words are what we have been given to do it with—why else the deluge of words from millions of bloggers on the internet? There are those who have decried the death of books (they mean “printed books”) as a result of the freedom the internet gives anyone, who has something to say, to do so. Well, perhaps. But it is certainly not the death of words. No one needs convincing that words continue to serve us in countless ways.
One day, to help me cope with the inevitable adversities of aging, I put them in my service, interspersed with periods of working on art. Before I knew it, I was writing fiction–that part of my right brain, still intact and not ruined by academics, had sprung into action. I got carried away, absorbed into this other world. In the end, though, what I produced did come from what I know: It is all, really, that one can write about. Or, perhaps, I just reached the limits of my imagination.
I never expected to publish my novel. It had already served me in its writing: I have not fallen apart and I am getting more mouthy. But the freedom the internet dangles in your face is too much to resist and I got drawn into the ebook whirlwind.
This novel is not going to hit charts. I did the best I could with it and, although that well-turned meaty phrase still eludes me, I think I did reasonably well. Besides, I am both bad and uneasy at a key to selling: self-promotion. I did have fun writing it, doing illustrations for it, and learning how to self-publish. I even tried to do a video trailer.
Oh, yes—the book! It is a period piece—perhaps, to whisk me away from the realities of the moment. And it is a romance, the sort you might dump into the “chicklit” category—particularly if you are a modern dilettante averse to romance (See my entry:Dear Romantically Diffident: Resurrect Romance. You’ll be happier. It is a sort of sequel to an Elizabeth Gaskell book and BBC series. Doing a sequel to a well-loved book is intimidating. The original is invariably unmatchable. But the book is done and out there to fend for itself.
This blurb appeared in my first website that, for reasons I’m ignorant of, just vanished in the ethernet.
Are You Left- or Right-Brain Dominant? (psychologytoday.com)