12年磨一书
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My son looked up at me from his post at the kitchen table, his blue eyes staring at me reproachfully1) from behind a spoonful of Cheerios2).
“Mum?” he asked sternly3), stretching the word out so it bowed in the middle and ended on a higher pitch.
“What?” I was on the defensive and emotionally more than a little on the run4).
He was only 12, but he had the stance of a lawyer. While my two daughters might gracefully let me squirm5) away from an uncomfortable question, my son never will, and I owe him a debt of gratitude for pushing me on the issue we were discussing at the time.
“I asked when you were going to get your book published,” he said with a noble courtroom flourish6).
Truth to tell I had pretty much given up on the project. I had started writing a novel when the little-league lawyer in question was not much more than a twinkle in his father’s eye. Twelve years of raising three children and two stepchildren while supporting my spouse in his career as a currency trader, doing a little freelance writing and editing, then walking my father, my dog and finally the spouse himself to their death―it had all quenched7) much of my earlier enthusiasm.
I had tackled the job of replacing my husband’s income with determination but I was tired. I was lonely. I was discouraged. And I didn’t think I had any time or energy available to continue working on my novel.
Like many other would-be authors, I have wanted to become a published writer since I was about 8. I used to climb into a backyard apple tree clutching a writing tablet and a stubby HB pencil and scribble endlessly between doses of daydreaming and mouthfuls of McIntosh8). In high school, I wrote soulful and self-centred poetry about the anguish of young love and the confusion of growing up. In university, I wrote for my student newspaper.
As time went on, I realized that creative writing was unlikely to generate the income necessary to support myself, let alone a family. So I turned to jobs that would at least let me write. Journalism. Government communications. Marketing. Public relations. I felt grateful to be able to make my way in the world with language as my stock in trade9). Still, a wayward10) part of me kept thinking, “But I really want to write a novel!”
A few years into my second marriage, my husband confronted me on the topic.
“It’s something you’ve always wanted to do,” he said. “What’s stopping you?”
I had a million reasons not to do it―leading the list were self-doubt, anxiety and the fear of not being good enough. But they all dissolved in the face of his question that day. Actually, nothing was stopping me.
Other than me.
So I began the fun and endless task of creating a story. I had no clue what I was doing or how one was supposed to write a novel. I just jumped in11) and wrote. I wrote a story about a woman who faced challenge and disappointment but who gathered up her courage and learned to dream.
By the time my husband drifted off12) into his final slumber13), I had managed to wrestle myself into completing a final draft. But I had a heart full of tears, two children to raise and a business to run. My novel seemed trivial in the face of eternity, and yet more important than ever.
We don’t know how much time we have left on this planet to make our mark, and I agonized over my own future. What if I died before seeing if my manuscript could be turned into a real book? What if my novel could actually become a published work? How would I ever know if I didn’t try?
Then again, what if my children went hungry because their mother couldn’t make a successful living as a freelancer?
Practicality quietly won the day14) and I neglected the effort to find an agent.
By the time of my son’s inquisition last spring, I had been ignoring the irritating voice in the back of my head that wanted me to pursue my dream.
“I don’t know,” I said aloud.
My son chewed thoughtfully, then took another mouthful of cereal. After a moment, he put his spoon down and looked at me wisely.
“You’re always telling us kids that we should never give up,” he said. “How can we do that if you don’t show us how?”
His words curdled15) in my heart. How indeed?
And then this: “You can do it, Mum! Pleeeease?”
And so I did.
Manor House Publishing16) released Shades of Teale at the end of November, 2011 and all three of my children are proud of their mother in a way I could never have imagined. It has been a long journey and I’ve learned much. But it appears there’s more to come. My son, now 13, feels I’ve only just started this novelist business and there is much more to be done.
“So when is your book going to be a bestseller?” he asked the other day.
I groaned. “I think we might have to give that one a little more time,” I said.
My son raised an eyebrow and looked at me skeptically. “Mum?”
我儿子坐在厨房餐桌旁的座位上，抬头看我，从一勺奇里奥斯麦片后面露出的一双蓝眼睛紧盯着我，流露出责备的眼神。
“妈妈？”他严厉地质问我，说“妈妈”两个字时他把音拖得很长，故意中间压低声音，结尾抬高音调。
“怎么了？”我进入了提防状态，表面不动声色，内心隐藏的情绪变化可不止一点半点。
他那时只有12岁，却俨然一副律师的样子。要是我的两个女儿感觉到我对某个尴尬的问题闪烁其词，她们也许会大度地放我一马，让我糊弄过去。但我的儿子却决不会轻易放过。我们当时正在讨论的那件事就是他督促我去做的，为此我欠他一个人情。
“我是问你的书到底什么时候能出版？”他一边说，一边像在法庭上那样庄重地把手一挥。
老实说，我几乎放弃这个计划了。我开始写小说那会儿，眼前这个向我发难的小律师在他父亲眼里还只是个小不点。在过去的这12年里，我要养育我的三个孩子以及我丈夫和他前妻所生的两个孩子；我要支持丈夫做外汇交易的工作；我自己还要做一些自由撰稿与编辑的工作；之后我要陪我父亲散步，陪我家小狗散步，最后又陪我丈夫散步，直到他们最后一个个都离我而去。所有这一切几乎“浇”灭了我早年的写作热情。
丈夫去世后，我毅然决然地接替他挑起家里的经济重担。但我觉得累了，感到孤独了，丧失信心了。我觉得自己既没有时间也没有精力去继续创作我的小说了。
和其他许多准作家一样，大概自八岁起，我就一直梦想着能成为一名作家，出自己的书。以前，我常常带上一本便签簿和一截粗短的HB铅笔，爬到后院的一棵苹果树上，在做白日梦和啃苹果的间隙，不停地在本子上涂涂写写。上中学时，我以自己为中心，写深情款款的诗，谈青涩恋情的苦恼和成长的困惑。读大学时，我为学校的学生报纸撰稿。
随着时间的推移，我意识到，文字创作所带来的收入可能连我自己都养不活，更不要说养活一家人了。于是，我转向做其他至少可以让我写点东西的工作，比如新闻工作、政府通讯、市场营销、公共关系。我很庆幸，自己能够以语言为谋生手段在这个世界上立足。然而，我的内心总有一个任性的声音在不停地抗议：“但我真正想做的是写一本小说！”
再婚几年后，我的丈夫与我当面谈论起这个话题。
“你一直都想写小说，”他说，“是什么阻止你付诸行动了呢？”
我不行动的理由太多了，其中排在前三位的理由是自我怀疑、焦虑和担心自己不够优秀。但那一天，面对丈夫的问题，所有这些理由都不复存在了。实际上，没什么阻碍我创作。
除了我自己。
于是，我开始着手写小说，这项工作漫无止境但妙趣横生。我并不清楚自己在做什么，或者小说该怎么写。我只是热切地投入其中写起来。我写了一个女人的故事，她遭遇了很多挑战和挫折，但还是鼓起勇气，学会了怀揣梦想。
我的丈夫最终长眠不醒、离我而去时，我已挣扎着完成了小说的终稿。但那时的我伤心欲绝，有两个孩子要抚养，还有摊生意要经营。面对时间的永恒，我的小说显得微不足道，但在此时，却又比任何时候都显得重要。
我们想在这个星球上留下印记，但不知道自己还剩多少时间。我苦苦思索自己的未来。如果我还不知道自己的手稿能否出版就撒手人寰该怎么办？如果我的小说真的能出版，又会怎样？如果我连试都不试一下，又怎么能知道这些问题的答案？
然后，还是那个问题：如果我的孩子因为自己的母亲无法靠自由写作成功地维持生计而忍饥挨饿，那该怎么办？
实际的现实问题不知不觉中占了上风。于是，我就不再费力去找图书商了。
我儿子问起出版小说这件事是去年夏天的时候。在那以前，虽然我的脑海里总会出现刺激我的声音，告诉我要追求自己的梦想，但我一直对之置若罔闻。
“我不知道。”我大声说。
我儿子若有所思地嚼着他的麦片，接着又往嘴里送了一大口。过了一会儿，他放下手中的勺子，狡黠地看着我。
“你总跟我们这些小孩儿说，应该永不放弃，”他说，“可如果你不言传身教，我们又怎么可能做得到呢？”
他的话堵在我的心里。确实，怎么可能呢？
接着他又说：“你能做到的，妈妈！求――你了！”
于是我真的做到了。
2011年11月底，我的小说《蒂尔的回忆》由马诺尔书屋出版公司出版。我的三个孩子如此以我为傲，要不是出书，我绝对想象不到他们会有这样的反应。这是一段漫长的旅程，我从中受益良多。但似乎一切并未结束。我的儿子如今13岁了，他觉得我的小说家之路才刚刚开始，未来要做的事还多得很。
“那么，你的书什么时候能成为畅销书呢？”前几天他这样问我。
我不满地哼哼两声，说：“我觉得要实现这个目标，可能得多给点时间。”
我儿子扬起眉毛，用怀疑的眼神看着我说：“妈妈？”
1. reproachfully [rɪˈprəʊtʃfəli] adv. 责备地
2. Cheerios：奇里奥斯麦片，美国通用磨坊公司的五谷食品品牌
3. sternly [stɜːnli] adv. 严厉地，苛刻地，坚决地
4. on the run：隐藏着
5. squirm [skwɜːm] vi. 蠕动
6. flourish [ˈflʌrɪʃ] n. 挥舞，挥动；(尤指意在引人注目的)一挥
7. quench [kwentʃ] vt. 熄灭
8. McIntosh：麦金托什苹果，是一种红绿皮、味道偏酸的苹果品种，在加拿大东部和新西兰最为流行。
9. stock in trade：(某行业所必需的)营业用具
10. wayward [ˈweɪwəd] adj. 任性的
11. jump in：(热切地)参与；(一下子)投入
12. drift off：迷迷糊糊地睡去
13. slumber [ˈslʌmbə(r)] n. 睡眠
14. win the day：获胜，成功
15. curdle [ˈkɜːdl] vi. 凝结，凝固
16. Manor House Publishing：马诺尔书屋出版公司，加拿大的一家小型出版公司，成立于1998年。