small world

I often tell people that part of what makes me Canadian is knowing how to live a small life in a big place.  I live in NYC but really, I live in Brooklyn.  I was in the Village last night (after seeing Jane Eyre, which was spectacularly slow and irredeemably dull) and I could feel myself sliding into HSP overload—too many people, almost all of them young and loud and wearing lots of make-up.  I felt like such an old lady and I kept marveling at the fact that I was out on a Friday night—in Manhattan!  When I write, I shut down as much as I can; that enables me to focus on the world I'm building for my characters.  Trouble is, once I finish writing I'm left with my own reduced reality.  People stop calling when you stop answering the phone, and I'm *so* grateful that my friends stand by me whether I'm writing or not.  They wait for me, and I appreciate that more than they'll ever know.  I talked to my editor yesterday and he loves Ship of Souls, even calling it "better than Wish."  I'm still tinkering with it, but feel good knowing that my next book has a home.  Today I went to the park for a power walk and then ambled over to the boathouse.  The last time I was there, I found a pile of paving stones that wound up being a major part of the most dramatic scene in SOS.  The time before that, I sat beside the water after a long walk and was joined by two swans—one of the most magical days ever.  I get quiet when I'm in the park and that's why so many story ideas come to me then.  Today the pile of paving stones was circled by a makeshift fence.  I feel like I need to write these things down now so I don't forget about them later.  I found two cowrie shells on the sidewalk near my home—that was what pushed me to write last winter, but SOS started a year ago just as spring was beginning.  I was walking outside the park and looked through the fence and saw D, and Nyla, and Keem.  They didn't have names then, but it was clear that the younger boy felt excluded by the older teens.  And something invisible was stirring up the dead leaves on the ground.  I can't really pin it down—isn't a story always in process, always growing in your mind?  There's something about trees and rocks—they're solid, silent witnesses to so many things.  I walked around the lake today and made myself look more closely at things I ordinarily ignore.  Small as my world is, there's still a lot left undiscovered and unrecorded.  Which is why I'm still tinkering with SOS, adding all the details that get lost when you focus on drama or conflict or the safety of your characters.  I remember telling a friend about the book and she said, "Don't kill him at the end, Z—let him live."  That wasn't my original intention, but she got her way and that means the book has a "to be continued" feel to it.  For now, I'll settle for a manuscript that feels complete.  I want the reader to see Brooklyn through D's eyes, which are really my eyes, of course…