The Art of Timing: When is the Right Moment to Write Your Memoir?
You’ve lived a life full of twists, turns, heartbreaks, and triumphs. You feel the itch to put it all on the page—to organise the chaos of your past into a narrative that others can learn from. But then, the nagging question creeps in: Is it too soon?
We often hear that “everyone has a book in them,” but not everyone understands that a memoir is not just an autobiography—it’s a carefully curated work of art. If you’re wondering when to sit down and start writing, consider this your guide to finding the right moment.
The “Age 20” Trap: Why Gravitas Matters
It’s easy to feel like you’ve lived a lifetime by the time you hit your twenties. Perhaps you’ve travelled, fallen in love, or survived a difficult season. While your story is undoubtedly valid, it may lack the perspective required for a compelling memoir.
Writing a memoir requires emotional distance. If you are still in the thick of the trauma, the anger, or the immediate aftermath of a life-changing event, you are likely writing a diary, not a memoir. Diaries are for processing; memoirs are for reflecting.
At twenty, your life is still in the “active” phase. You are the protagonist, but you aren’t yet the historian of your own existence. Gravitas—the weight, the wisdom, and the “so what?” factor—usually comes when you can look back at your younger self with compassion rather than reactiveness. You need enough time to have passed so that you can see how the dots connected, not just how they hit you in the moment.
The Key Ingredients of a Compelling Memoir
A great memoir isn’t just a chronological list of dates and events. It is a transformation arc. To move your story from a personal journal to a page-turner, you need to infuse it with these three ingredients:
1. The Universal Theme
The biggest mistake aspiring memoirists make is assuming people want to read about them. The truth is, readers want to read about themselves through your experiences. Your memoir needs a universal theme—grief, resilience, the search for identity, or the complexity of forgiveness. If your story can act as a mirror for the reader, you have a winner.
2. The “Reflective Narrator”
Readers don’t just want to see the person who was making mistakes at 22; they want to hear from the person you are today. How has your understanding of the past shifted? The tension between who you were then and who you are now is where the “gravitas” lives. You must be willing to analyse your own motivations, even the ones that aren’t particularly flattering.
3. The Vulnerability Threshold
If you aren’t sweating a little bit while you write, you probably aren’t being honest enough. A compelling memoir requires you to strip away the ego. If you portray yourself as the hero of every chapter, the reader will lose interest. We connect with human flaws, failed ambitions, and the quiet moments of realisation. Ask yourself: Am I holding back to protect my image, or am I laying it all out to serve the story?
So, How Long Should You Wait?
There is no specific year on the calendar that signals “you are ready.” Instead, ask yourself these three questions:
Can I write about this without wanting to exact revenge? (If you’re writing to settle scores, it’s not ready.)
Do I understand the “Why”? (Can you explain what your story teaches you about the human condition?)
Is the wound a scar, or is it still bleeding? (If it’s still bleeding, use your journal. When it becomes a scar, start your memoir.)
Writing a memoir is an act of archaeology. You are digging through the layers of your identity to find the fossilized truths that remain. Take your time. Let the story settle. When the urgency to scream your story matches the clarity to understand it—that is when you are ready to write.
Are you working on your story? What’s the biggest challenge you’re facing in capturing your past? Let’s discuss in the comments below.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
As a result of a sit-down with Chester, who has been keeping an eye on the progress of the project, or at least that’s what he thinks, we’ve decided that there’s going to be a slight change.
Plan or not, writing the story was always going to go the way the characters want to go, and I’ve decided that the two protagonists are not going to have a happily ever after.
They can’t.
It was a pie in the sky notion that they could, given the nature of their professions. But it’s not only that; it comes down to the plans their employer has for them, and it certainly isn’t for them to be together.
So, the way it’s written, they were about to have that intimate moment when common sense took over, and instead of being together, they are apart in her apartment.
She wanted him to stay, he wanted to stay, but there are forces in play that dictate caution.
The Blank Page, The Burnout, and the Necessity of Leaving Your Desk
There is a specific kind of romanticism attached to the image of the “tortured writer.” We envision the solitary figure, hunched over a desk in a dimly lit room, surrounded by stacks of paper and empty coffee mugs, finding their ultimate bliss in the quiet hum of creation.
If your ideal scenario—your slice of heaven—is sitting in a silent room with nothing but a blank sheet of paper and a pen, you might be wondering: Is there something wrong with me?
The short answer? No. But there is a danger in confusing “solitude” with “stagnation.”
The Comfort of the Void
For many of us, the blank page is the ultimate sanctuary. It is a space of pure potential, untainted by the messy, demanding realities of the outside world. When the world feels loud, chaotic, or overwhelming, the blank page is the only place where we can impose order. It’s a controlled environment where we are the architects of the universe.
However, that sanctuary can quickly become a cage. When you retreat into the vacuum of your own mind for too long, your writing begins to suffer. It loses its vitality, its texture, and its connection to the very thing it’s supposed to reflect: life.
The Myth of the Perpetual Engine
We feel guilty when we stop. We worry that if we step away from the desk, we’ll lose our momentum, our “voice,” or our discipline. But here is a hard truth every writer needs to internalise: To write about life, you must actually live it.
If you spend every waking hour staring at a blank page, you are not refilling the well; you are just watching the bottom of the bucket. Eventually, the well runs dry.
When you force yourself to stay in that room, you aren’t just risking a “writer’s block” or a mediocre draft; you are risking a breakdown. Writing requires a massive expenditure of emotional and intellectual energy. It is an act of extraction. If you never replenish, you begin to run on fumes. You become irritable, exhausted, and—perhaps worst of all—your writing starts to sound like a rehash of a rehash.
Why You Need to “Get Out”
Taking a break isn’t an act of laziness; it is a vital part of the creative process. Here is why you need to leave the room:
1. You need input to create output. Inspiration is rarely found at the desk. It is found in the way a stranger speaks on the bus, the changing colour of the leaves in the park, the frustrating delay of a train, or the taste of a meal you didn’t have to cook yourself. These experiences provide the “raw material” for your stories. Without them, your writing becomes abstract and hollow.
2. The subconscious needs room to breathe. Have you ever noticed that your best ideas come in the shower or while you’re out for a walk? That’s because your brain is a problem-solving machine that works best when it’s distracted. By stepping away, you give your subconscious permission to connect the dots that your conscious mind was too stubborn to see.
3. Perspective is a cure for perfectionism. When we sit in a room for too long, we lose our sense of proportion. A single paragraph feels like a life-or-death struggle. A week away from the work allows you to come back with fresh eyes, seeing the flaws you were blind to and the potential you had buried under anxiety.
The Holiday is Part of the Work
If you are currently feeling like the “ideal situation” of the blank page is starting to feel more like a prison cell, take it as your sign: Go on holiday.
It doesn’t need to be an exotic excursion. Go to a museum, sit in a crowded cafe, take a hike, or simply spend a weekend completely disconnected from your project. Give yourself the gift of being a person for a few days, rather than a “writer.”
When you return to that desk, you won’t be returning to a cage. You’ll be returning with pockets full of observations, a rested nervous system, and a surplus of energy.
The blank page will still be there. It’s not going anywhere. But it will be waiting for a version of you that has something new to say.
The Blank Page, The Burnout, and the Necessity of Leaving Your Desk
There is a specific kind of romanticism attached to the image of the “tortured writer.” We envision the solitary figure, hunched over a desk in a dimly lit room, surrounded by stacks of paper and empty coffee mugs, finding their ultimate bliss in the quiet hum of creation.
If your ideal scenario—your slice of heaven—is sitting in a silent room with nothing but a blank sheet of paper and a pen, you might be wondering: Is there something wrong with me?
The short answer? No. But there is a danger in confusing “solitude” with “stagnation.”
The Comfort of the Void
For many of us, the blank page is the ultimate sanctuary. It is a space of pure potential, untainted by the messy, demanding realities of the outside world. When the world feels loud, chaotic, or overwhelming, the blank page is the only place where we can impose order. It’s a controlled environment where we are the architects of the universe.
However, that sanctuary can quickly become a cage. When you retreat into the vacuum of your own mind for too long, your writing begins to suffer. It loses its vitality, its texture, and its connection to the very thing it’s supposed to reflect: life.
The Myth of the Perpetual Engine
We feel guilty when we stop. We worry that if we step away from the desk, we’ll lose our momentum, our “voice,” or our discipline. But here is a hard truth every writer needs to internalise: To write about life, you must actually live it.
If you spend every waking hour staring at a blank page, you are not refilling the well; you are just watching the bottom of the bucket. Eventually, the well runs dry.
When you force yourself to stay in that room, you aren’t just risking a “writer’s block” or a mediocre draft; you are risking a breakdown. Writing requires a massive expenditure of emotional and intellectual energy. It is an act of extraction. If you never replenish, you begin to run on fumes. You become irritable, exhausted, and—perhaps worst of all—your writing starts to sound like a rehash of a rehash.
Why You Need to “Get Out”
Taking a break isn’t an act of laziness; it is a vital part of the creative process. Here is why you need to leave the room:
1. You need input to create output. Inspiration is rarely found at the desk. It is found in the way a stranger speaks on the bus, the changing colour of the leaves in the park, the frustrating delay of a train, or the taste of a meal you didn’t have to cook yourself. These experiences provide the “raw material” for your stories. Without them, your writing becomes abstract and hollow.
2. The subconscious needs room to breathe. Have you ever noticed that your best ideas come in the shower or while you’re out for a walk? That’s because your brain is a problem-solving machine that works best when it’s distracted. By stepping away, you give your subconscious permission to connect the dots that your conscious mind was too stubborn to see.
3. Perspective is a cure for perfectionism. When we sit in a room for too long, we lose our sense of proportion. A single paragraph feels like a life-or-death struggle. A week away from the work allows you to come back with fresh eyes, seeing the flaws you were blind to and the potential you had buried under anxiety.
The Holiday is Part of the Work
If you are currently feeling like the “ideal situation” of the blank page is starting to feel more like a prison cell, take it as your sign: Go on holiday.
It doesn’t need to be an exotic excursion. Go to a museum, sit in a crowded cafe, take a hike, or simply spend a weekend completely disconnected from your project. Give yourself the gift of being a person for a few days, rather than a “writer.”
When you return to that desk, you won’t be returning to a cage. You’ll be returning with pockets full of observations, a rested nervous system, and a surplus of energy.
The blank page will still be there. It’s not going anywhere. But it will be waiting for a version of you that has something new to say.
As a result of a sit-down with Chester, who has been keeping an eye on the progress of the project, or at least that’s what he thinks, we’ve decided that there’s going to be a slight change.
Plan or not, writing the story was always going to go the way the characters want to go, and I’ve decided that the two protagonists are not going to have a happily ever after.
They can’t.
It was a pie in the sky notion that they could, given the nature of their professions. But it’s not only that; it comes down to the plans their employer has for them, and it certainly isn’t for them to be together.
So, the way it’s written, they were about to have that intimate moment when common sense took over, and instead of being together, they are apart in her apartment.
She wanted him to stay, he wanted to stay, but there are forces in play that dictate caution.
It was a mad dash from the office to the airport, and like most times when it came to personal travel, I just made it, or I was five minutes too late.
Of course, this time, I had a legitimate reason. Because I had to clear the vacation days, I needed to go home and be with my mother, whose health had taken a turn for the worse, and it meant visiting HR.
And in HR was Adeline, the woman I had met at a staff function the week before and had spent a rather interesting evening. I had a strict policy of not dating work colleagues, but for some reason, she seemed different.
It was not a date, and we had parted without any commitment to continue, though something inside me told me it might be worth pursuing.
I had to sign the vacation form, and she was the duty officer at the desk. In the end, I had to run, but she had asked to exchange phone numbers. I had no idea how long I would be gone, a few days or much longer, given my mother’s doctor wasn’t sure himself.
All I knew was that her time was almost up. Stage four cancer was as unpredictable as it was relentless. The only positive is that it has given me the time to get home and spend those last few weeks with her.
My brother and sister were on the other side of the world and wouldn’t be able to make it, though they were trying to get home. The thing was that our mother was not all that keen for them to return. It was an odd response and one I couldn’t understand.
Perhaps I would find out when I got there.
…
On a trip that involved two planes, one made at least a dozen times over the past two years without a glitch, was expected, discounting the circumstances, to be equally as easy.
Wrong.
It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. A surplus bag left behind stopped my outward-bound first flight, delaying it to the point it was scrubbed, and everyone had to return the next day.
That killed the connecting flight, so that when I was finally on the ground, the second flight wasn’t leaving for another eleven hours.
I finally got home two days after I started out. I was glad she was not at death’s door, or I would have missed seeing her alive and have those last few meaningless words we say to people who are dying.
It was a given that I would automatically ask how she was, knowing she was never going to feel well again. And yet there was no stopping us because we had been indoctrinated a long time ago with such human concern.
She was propped up in a comfortable chair by the fire, reading a book when I got there, fighting off the beginnings of a snowstorm, and driving an unfamiliar car.
At best, I was expecting to be snowed in. My mother’s last conversation over the phone while I was waiting for the second plane was upbeat, though I could hear the pain in her voice. She was on regulated morphine shots to manage that same pain.
I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the large living space. In winter, it could get very cold, but it was more the views in spring and summer that made up for the other two seasons.
“How could you read a book when the falling snow is so breathtakingly beautiful?”
In more ways than one. The intense cold outside could make breathing difficult. It used to affect me when I was younger.
“Richie, at last.”
I went over and gave her a hug.
Mrs Davis, her carer, came in carrying a tray with tea and coffee. My mother had never acquired the taste for coffee, perhaps because of her family origins in England.
She was, she always said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, that she should have been a princess, and only the thought of all that pomp and ceremony that came with the title had put her off, running away to America and a different sort of life.
And when we asked her what she meant, she would always say, ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out’. But it never escaped me that Dad always used to call her his ‘Princess’ with one of his enigmatic smiles, along with their story on how she came second in the Prom Queen stakes and therefore would always be his Princess.
I never understood what he meant, and the others just thought he was simply crazy in love with her.
It was the sort of love I wanted to find, but so far, I had not.
Mrs Davis poured the tea and left us. I sat in the seat beside her, where Dad always sat. It was strange that he always called the living room ‘the throne room’.
“You were lucky. The airport just closed. The snow is going to set in for a few days.”
God’s will, perhaps.
“Any word from the others?” I could see the iPad beside her, a sure sign she had been video conferencing with my brother and sister.
“I told them it’s not urgent. They have obligations and children to consider. Unlike you, free as a bird.”
It was a blessing and, ironically, it was a curse. She had hoped that she would have at least one grandchild from each of her children, and I had disappointed her.
There had been several candidates over the years, but I was not what they were looking for, and in the end, I decided not to try. If it was meant to happen, it would.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’d rather she were perfect for you than second best.”
“You were, according to Dad, and that’s all I ask for.”
“You’re not a second-best sort of person, Richie. She’s out there. You just haven’t met her yet.”
It was the same every time I came home. It saddened me that this would be the last time and that it was going to be hard to remain upbeat.
…
Several weeks passed, and it was very hard to watch her slowly decline. Her bed was set up in the living room, making it easier for her to get from the bed to the seat
A steady stream of visitors showed how much the townsfolk adored her, everyone coming to pay their respects while she had the strength.
Now it was deserting her, so she remained in bed and held court from there. A different colour dressing gown for each day of the week.
Our conversations were of childhood memories, hers and mine, though there were hardly any of mine that she wasn’t aware of, and a whole swathe of hers I had no idea about. I don’t think any of us did, Dad included, and it sounded to me like she had another life before this one. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, but the stories, well, they sounded too real to be just in her imagination.
She had lived a life that was quite literally beyond imagination.
Until…
A few days later, a visitor came. Not your average visitor, but someone who looked vaguely familiar, someone I’d seen before.
Someone who called her mama.
She sat down opposite my mother and took her hand in hers. It was like turning on a light switch and watching the brightness of an illuminated globe light up the room.
“Anastasia?”
“Yes, mama. It is me. It is your time.”
Mother looked at me with watery eyes and a big smile, happy in a way she had not been for a long time. “I asked Anastasia to come see you. I told her you were a good boy.”
Whatever that meant.
She then closed her eyes for so long I thought she had passed, finally content that her time had come, but then she said, with conviction, “You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.”
At first, I thought she was going to tell me one of her fairy tales, but she was not. She had opened her eyes and was looking straight at me.
“What more could there be?” I asked.
“More than you could ever imagine.”
…
Then, it was like a light went on in my head. The woman sitting next to my mother, holding her hand, looking angelic.
The Princess Anastasia. I’d just been reading about her, from some obscure country tucked away in the mountainous region of Europe, a place few knew about and even less could visit.
And then looking between the two, the uncanny resemblance between the two.
“You can see it, can’t you?” Anastasia said.
“You are related.”
“She is my mother, yes. She was banished many, many years ago, and I have only just found her. You are her son. Her dying wish was for you to return to her homeland, and if you honour her dying wish, I will be very happy to take you there.”
My mother looked at me with teary eyes. “Will you?”
“What about the others?”
“Then need not know, and it would be of little concern to them. They are not of your blood. You are the son of a prince and a princess, Richard, and meant for greater things. Please tell me you will return with Anastasia.” She reached out for my hand, and when I took it in mine, it felt cold. Her glow was beginning to fade, and the end was near.
To be honest, I thought she was off her rocker, but the earnestness in her tone, and the fact that I was sitting next to a real, live princess, and apparently my sister. I think I just nodded dumbly.
With that, she passed, and though I was not to know then, a whole new world awaited me.
The problems of the day before are gone, and I get back to the plan.
Today I have concentrated on the side excursion I’d come up with the other day and thought it could wait, but I’m at a point, further on, where I need to have this written to feed into the main story.
I’m in two minds about how this should be written because I had two possible outcomes sketched out two possible outcomes, and one leads to quite a different ending.
The plan, son, the plan!
I edit it as it should be, and the other outcome gets crossed out, and the outline is sent to the ‘to be written sometime in the future’ pile. It’s a strong enough ending to power its own story.
I might even become a sequel.
Hang on, don’t get carried away. Get this one finished first.
Day 91 – The writing sprint inspired by an event years before
…
The Myth of the “Overnight” Success: What Jack Kerouac Can Teach Us About Creativity
We love the narrative of the “lightning bolt.” We want to believe that great art—the kind that defines a generation—is born in a flash of divine inspiration.
Take Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. The legend goes that he wrote the entire, sprawling masterpiece in one manic, caffeine-fueled, three-week sprint. It’s the ultimate romantic story for writers: lock yourself in a room, feed paper into a typewriter, and emerge with a bestseller.
But if we stop there, we miss the most important part of the process. We ignore the seven years of gasoline, asphalt, jazz clubs, and heartbreak that happened before the paper hit the typewriter.
The Seven-Year “Incubation”
Before that legendary three-week sprint in 1951, Kerouac wasn’t just sitting around waiting for a muse. He was living. He was riding buses across the American landscape, working on railroads, observing the rhythm of the beatniks, and—crucially—filling notebooks with sketches and observations.
He was conducting a seven-year masterclass in experience.
When people ask, “Is it really possible to write a bestseller in three weeks?” the answer is both yes and no. You can write the draft in three weeks, but you cannot live the life in three weeks.
Kerouac didn’t “write” On the Road in three weeks; he transcribed seven years of accumulated soul-searching. The writing was the harvest; the seven years were the soil, the rain, and the seasons.
Why Your “Sprints” Are Only as Good as Your “Strolls”
Many aspiring writers get stuck because they try to force the sprint without doing the strolling. They want the climax of the creative process without the tedious, often messy work of gathering material.
If you are feeling blocked, perhaps you aren’t lacking “inspiration.” Perhaps you are simply lacking input.
Creativity is a digestive process. You consume the world—people, conversations, nature, failure, thrill—and your subconscious ferments these experiences until they are ready to be poured out. If you try to sprint when your internal tank is empty, you’ll find yourself staring at a blank cursor, terrified.
The Power of the “Controlled Spill”
Kerouac’s three-week sprint was successful because it was a controlled spill. He had spent years thinking about the story, dreaming about the characters, and refining his voice. By the time he rolled that 120-foot scroll of paper into his typewriter, the story was already finished in his mind. He just had to get out of its way.
Here is how you can apply the “Kerouac Method” to your own work:
Stop Trying to Sprint Every Day: You will burn out. Use your “off-days” to experience life. Collect curiosities. Write down fragments of dialogue. Store up the images that move you.
Trust the Incubation Period: The best ideas often sit in the back of your brain for years. Don’t force them onto the page until they feel heavy, until they are practically vibrating and demanding to be let out.
Prepare the Environment: When the time comes to sprint, clear the deck. Eliminate the distractions. Make the physical act of writing as seamless as possible. Kerouac famously used a continuous scroll to avoid the “interruption” of changing pages. Find your version of that.
Accept the Mess: A three-week sprint is not about perfection; it’s about velocity. Leave the editing for a later date. Your goal during the sprint is to capture the lightning, not to organise the storm.
The Lesson
The myth of the three-week bestseller is a dangerous one if you think it means you can skip the hard work of living. But it is an empowering one if you realise that your life is your research.
Every conversation you have, every mile you travel, and every heartbreak you endure is a brick in the foundation of your future masterpiece. Spend your years gathering the material, and then, when the pressure becomes too much to hold inside, give yourself permission to run.
You might just find that you’re capable of writing your own version of brilliance.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 