Perhaps it was a combination of limited lighting in the cabin and the fact that I worked at night, but I became plagued with fierce headaches lodged over and behind my right eye. As a kid I’d wanted to wear glasses, thought they made me look smart, but I hadn’t really needed them. Now, the strain from staring at the little computer screen and in a room ill-equipped with good light would force me to trek down to Mussoorie and be fitted with a pair.
In the meantime, the writing became easier, even though it was just the second day of working on the book. Still, I felt as if I’d found a groove. I’d started Chapter 2 (“Kali”) the day before and finished it “once and for all (for awhile)” that night. The confidence this feeling delivered was euphoric. I fantasized – the dream of every writer – that my book would become a best seller and win awards. I imagined a great agent, a book launching in New York City, and a nation-wide book tour. These flights of fancy gave me something to hold onto during the long struggle of writing, and would shift and morph into something more attainable as I worked on the memoir over the years. But more importantly, I felt as if writing could be the right career for me.
My fantasy of writing a best seller was shared by no one. No one thought I’d ever write a book. I felt they all thought all I’d ever do was “talk about wanting to write a book and never do it.” I thought that applied to my family as well, but it didn’t matter. There was only one person who had to have blind belief in me at that moment, and that was ME! As long as I believed I could do it and kept moving forward each day making some progress, then that was all that mattered. As for everyone else, I’d just have to show them I could do it, that I would do it.