It’s a beautiful June day, and there is no excuse not to get off my butt, walk downtown, and get my Library Card. I’ve already been in my new town of Paris, Ontario, for six weeks…my fifth move in six years. It’s been stressful, but this move is different. I’m not starting a new job…I’m retired! There were times I didn’t think I’d make it, but here I am.
I squint into the sun and breathe in the fresh air. At the age of sixty, I’m finally going to live my lifelong dream of being a full-time writer. I have enough money for food, clothing, and my outrageously overpriced apartment. I’m grateful for this opportunity to reach my potential as a writer. No excuses!
In a previous lifetime, I was the vocalist and lyricist for “The Angry Soothsayers”, and though we never made it beyond the bar scene, the memories are etched inside forever. I also had some poems published and did poetry readings. The passion to return to the stage remains, but…no. It won’t happen.
Nothing’s been the same since ‘that day’.
Before ‘that day’, I wouldn’t stay in my apartment, and after ‘that day’, I won’t leave. Twenty years ago, I woke up, sat on the floor, back against the wall, and stopped… I’d had enough.
“You have depression,” the doctor informed me. I already knew that, but he made it official. It’s been a lot of pills, therapy, ups and downs, a broken relationship, a lot of learning…and healing. The depression never disappears; a few years have been lost, but enough of that. It’s time to focus on my new career as a full-time writer!
***
As I cross the bridge over the Nith River, I listen to the movement of the water, and the beauty of the day refreshes me. I’m looking forward to getting my library card. I’m also going to inquire whether they have or know of a writers’ group. During my twenties, I co-founded a poetry group called Poets’ Ink, and a few years ago, while working at the library, I started a writers’ group. It was the best part of the job. That’s when I started writing the novel. And a group would give me an incentive to leave my apartment.
The library is old on the outside, but modern and clean on the inside.
“Hi. I’d like to get a library card.”
“Certainly.”
“…and I was wondering if the library had a writers’ group?”
“We do! It meets in Burford.” She looks up the information on her computer. “They meet on the first and third Thursday of the month at two o’clock.”
“Thank you!” (Where the heck is Burford?)
During the process of getting my card, I may have mentioned that I was working on a novel. It occasionally slips out. (“Oh, did I mention that I’m writing a novel?”)
The cordial Library Assistant asks, “Would you like to set up a meeting with our Writer-in-Residence?”
I’m taken aback. I was not expecting this. “That would be great!” I’m unsure what this entails, but talking to an experienced writer sounds good to me! She registers me for a meeting with Susan Hayward at the St. George Library in two weeks. I leave, and the sun shines. I think, maybe, just maybe, this move may work out.
***
Those damn doubts have returned, and my low self-esteem screams: “You’re not as good as you think you are! You’re mediocre—your whole life has been built on mediocrity!” I’m ready to cancel my appointment with Susan Hayward. Why waste her time? Why waste my time?
I look over some of my writing, and…it’s not that bad, is it? The doubts remain, ready to pounce and brutally critique my latest writing before the document’s even been saved—but I’m not going to cancel my appointment. I have a very specific question about my novel that I’m hoping Susan Hayward will clear up.
***
I’m pretending to read my notebook, sucking on a pen, my right leg vibrating relentlessly as I await my appointment with Susan Hayward. A woman approaches and asks if I’m Thomas.
“I am.” I follow her to a table.
“I’m Susan Hayward. It’s nice to meet you.” We sit down, and she apologizes that we’re in an open space. There’s no one around, so it’s private enough. Susan is skinny, wears lots of jewellery, and her face has an ever-present smile. Her easy-going and friendly manner puts me at ease.
“What would you like to discuss?” she asks with a smile.
“Well. I was 10,000 words into my second draft when I had doubts about writing it in the first person. I re-wrote it in third-person to compare, and I’m still unsure.”
“Do you have copies of both with you?”
“I do.” I hand her the opening scene of both.
She starts with the third-person viewpoint, and my right leg dances to the beat of anxiety as I realize Susan is the first person to read any of the novel. What if she hates it? She’s laughing. I think that’s a good sign…unless she’s laughing at the poor quality of the writing.
She’s now on the first-person viewpoint, and I look at my notes, trying not to shake, trying not to discern what she’s thinking. After a few minutes, she sets the pages down.
She smiles and tells me, “Very good! I prefer the first-person viewpoint. The third-person is fine, but there’s more connection between the narrator and the reader in the first-person version.”
“I preferred the first-person, but doubts crept in. I thought that maybe it was too informal.”
“Oh, no. That informality connects the reader to the narrator, as if he’s talking to you at a bar.” She laughs. It’s an appropriate comment.
We discuss aspects of the scene for a few more minutes, and as I’m getting ready to go, I ask her about the writers’ group. My fear of socialization has been stubbornly trying to talk me out of going, but I can’t let fear keep me from something I might actually enjoy.
Susan tells me, “You should go! It’s a small, friendly, and supportive group. I’m there during the summer, and afterwards, I’ll make it when I can. It’s a great group!”
“I’ll go to the next one!” I assure her, trying to assure myself.
As I trek uphill on Laurel Crescent, realizing how old and out of shape I am, I reflect on what Susan told me. She’s definitely right—the first-person perspective is much better. It’s time to write!
***
It’s the day of the writers’ group, and I’m incapable of doing anything except stare at the computer or television. My nerves are running wild. Susan told me that people read their work, and then the group discusses it. I’m bringing the first scene, but I don’t think I’ll read it. It’s my first time. I’ll observe, be polite, and scan the pulse of the group. I’m relieved Susan will be there—someone I’ve met.
Oh, come on! Time is moving as if turtles have overtaken the hands of the clock. It’s a ten-minute drive, but at one-thirty, I’ve had enough and leave. I have to get out of my apartment.
***
It’s an easy drive to the Burford Library. No highways and little traffic. The way us old folks like it. I find the library without any undue trouble, thanks to Mapquest. It’s a one-floor building and large enough to provide lots of space for each section (children, fiction, computers, research). There’s room to breathe.
I see Susan, and walk over. I’m introduced to two women in the group. More people arrive, and we sit at two long tables, providing lots of space for the group of eight. My nerves are on edge, wondering if I should read or not. It would be nice to get back in the game, but then I remember all the swearing and drinking in the scene. No, I’d better not.
I listen to the others, and they’re good…all different genres, which I like. The responses consist of encouragement and friendly feedback—but no one’s writing about a depressed drunk, so the debate continues in my cranium: Should I read, or not?
“Tom, would you like to read?”
“Sure,” I blurt out without thinking. It’s too late now. It’s been over twenty years since I’ve read in front of people, and it’s something I’ve dreamed of doing again, but never thought would happen. However, I don’t remember it being this nerve-wracking!
I start. The words leave my mouth much too quickly…slow down, slow down! When I come to the first f-word, I replace it with effin’ and tell the group: “I didn’t actually write effin’.” They laugh. They’re not offended. They’re listening!
When I finish the scene, I’m disappointed. My nerves overtook me. I read too fast, I didn’t put enough nuance into the reading… My self-absorption is startled by the sound of applause. I look around the table and am greeted by smiling faces. This isn’t what I was expecting. A feeling overtakes my body, and it’s a good feeling. A very good feeling.
“That was excellent,” Susan tells me.
“Thank you!”
This is what I’ve been searching for. This is what I needed.
A word of encouragement.
I may like it here.
April, 2026