Ithaca

I have been thinking a lot about the story I'm writing, the story I want to write, the kind of writer I want to be instead of the the one I am right now (which is all over the place).

For the past 26 days I have been writing and reading and keeping notes.

I try to educate myself as far as the publishing world is concerned and the possibilities for new writers as myself, who are trying to break-through.

I have been reading book reviews by people I one day hope will be reading my books, researching other authors (both YA and not), adding new books to my Amazon wishlist for when Christmas is around the corner and I will treat myself to some new stories (I am especially eager to read "The Fault in Our Stars" by John Green).

At the same time I have gone through the five stages of the NaNo experience. These are the following:


Stage 1 (week 1): Can I do this?
Stage 2 (week 2): Maybe I can do this.
Stage 3 (week 3): I can do this!
Stage 4 (week 4): I can't do this...
Stage 5 (week 5): I will do this.

I had a talk with my boyfriend about what I should do, to make sure that when I do publish my fist novel, it will be the best it could possible be. His advice pretty much confirmed what I was already thinking but didn't want to admit.

Let's say my quest to become a respectable writer is a journey. I, much like everyone's favourite make-belief scientist Sheldon, like trains, so I'll make this journey one that takes me on an imaginary trip across Europe in one of those old-fashioned steam locomotives you only see in films.

So, the journey has just begun. I am sitting in my wagon, gazing out into a moving landscape of valleys and rivers, castles and sheep, daydreaming and thinking about how nice it will be when I reach my destination. I think of the sites I will visit and the local dishes I will taste, the people I will meet and the museums I will go to. I am lost into the daydreaming and the minute I snap out of it I ask the nice old man with the mustache sitting across from me, reading Homer's Odyssey "Are we there yet?".

The nice old man with the mustache (I forgot to mention he is wearing a beret) looks up from the Odyssey, smiles and says "We have only just taken off my child. We still have a long way to go."

Now, in this metaphor, If I were to publish the first novel I ever wrote, it would be like saying "Meh... I think I'm there already" and then proceed with jumping off the moving train onto aforementioned field with sheep, landing – quite possibly – on a pile of their steamy shit.

Apart from the obvious downsides to this outcome (which include breaking my neck, being covered in feces and bruising my ego) I also run the risk of making a fool of myself in front of the nice old man, whose opinion I cherish and who will probably shake his head in disapppointment at my childish ways!

As I have no intention of killing myself, i.e. my attempt at a fulfilling life in which I write stories people will want to read, I will just keep my butt on that train and take in the landscape, watching it change and evolve as we speed through it, until I see the fluorescent blue of the Mediterranean and can finally step outside to have a swim.

On the way to Aegina

For those of you not very big on metaphors who don't know what the steamy shit is supposed to be and what I am doing in it, I'll put it this way: I just started writing again after a looooooong hiatus, and before I even consider publishing anything, maybe I should just try to perfect my craft by writing more than just one novel. That is the only way I will feel comfortable with what I do and be able to look at myself in the mirror without wallowing in despair and self-disgust at my hubris!

Or... as a famous, fellow countryman once put it: «Σαν βγεις στον πηγαιμό για την Ιθάκη, να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος, γεμάτος περιπέτειες, γεμάτος γνώσεις» ("When you set out on your journey to Ithaca, pray that the road is long, full of adventure, full of knowledge").

The beginning.