Rowena Spark: Writing North

When I started writing seriously in 2020, I set up my laptop on the kitchen table overlooking the hills and valleys of my farm. When I say that I was writing seriously, I only mean that I was serious about experimenting with my abilities. I’d only ever written poetry and short prose before, and it honestly never occurred to me that I would be capable of more.

As I gazed over the paddocks I heard it; the distinct sound of a character clearing his throat in my head.

His name was Jay, and he kept telling me that he was searching for someone and he needed me to help find her. Every day he grew louder. One night, in frustration I suggested maybe she didn’t want to be found. I could feel his despair, and sleep eluded me. So the next morning I began the task of finding her.

I found Lexi easily, but when I led Jay to her, something was off. Something had severed the connection they once had. From there, it was up to Jay and Lexi to work it out, and I watched with my heart in my throat, my awkward, three-fingers-and-thumb style of typing forming words to explain what was unfolding between them. I tried to steer them in a certain way a few times, but they turned on me, exasperated, refusing to comply until I gave them the lead again. After an exhausting few weeks, we reached the end.

But I was shattered. I fell in love with them, cheered for them, sat with them in their dark moments, and now, when their story is over, I’m not needed anymore. The grief took me completely by surprise.

By this stage the novelty of having my laptop and notebooks spread over the kitchen table had worn off, so I purchased a writing desk. Set up beneath the windows, I still faced the north view.

It was there where a young woman entered my consciousness wearing the most haunted expression I’ve even seen.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I…I don’t know.” Rain responded, puzzled.
My fingers hovered over my laptop.
“Shall we find out?” I asked.
When she nodded cautiously, Credence came to life. When her story grew too intense for her, Rain retreated back into my head for a while.
I gave her space, which was just as well, because a man with wild hair and his heart in his hands stepped up.

“Everything went wrong, and I need your help to make it right.”
I straightened in my chair, opening a blank document.
“Tell me what happened.” I prompted, but Kade shrugged forlornly.
“I don’t know.” He whispered.
“Okay, how about we work it out together?”
Stealing Brynn made me cry, and by the time we were done, Kade’s eyes were as red as mine.

With the conclusion of Stealing Brynn, Rain emerged from the depths of my consciousness and announced she was ready to keep going. As soon as I reached the end of Credence, Rain opened her mouth again.
“If you don’t mind…” she murmured “There’s something else I’d like.”
When she told me, I gave her a smile, and Prudence was born.

When I reached the end of that one, another character stepped forward.

“Uh, what about me? You can’t leave me hanging!” Flynn begged, his blue eyes so full of pain that I didn’t hesitate to promise him we’d unravel his journey, too, and began Reticence.

By this stage, I’d gathered quite a collection of paperwork and files, and my new writing desk was piled high. My husband and I decided that a room on the other side of the house would be more preferable than the kitchen table, and I would have a door to close if I needed to work over the weekend when he was home.

But it didn’t feel…right. I persevered for months, knowing Flynn deserved closure, but after 140,000 words that I didn’t feel, Flynn fell silent and I knew something needed to change. I changed my routine, drank less coffee, then more coffee, turned the heater up, then turned it down again without results.

One morning it was so cold I grabbed my laptop and moved it into the kitchen so I could be closer to the fire. As I booted up my laptop I watched the fog roll into the valley, and realised how much I’d missed the view. Wild ducks came to rest on the dam, the cows moved around the paddocks, and those whispers in my head that had been silent for months began again, and it occurred to me what the problem had been.

I need to write facing north, towards the sun. I have to watch the clouds slide over the wide sky, see the rain devour the hills, and experience the oranges and pinks of sunrise.

So here I am, laptop spread over the kitchen table, waiting for Flynn’s voice to grow loud enough to hear again.

Writing North.