Name of fiction work? And were there other names that you considered? My novel is called The Beautiful Place. When I started writing it and wasn’t yet sure what it was, I called it Something.
What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you finished the piece of fiction? August 15, 2009 was when I started. I finished in May of 2021, as we were completing the copyedit.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And an you please include a photo? It took twelve years to write, and I had five main offices in that time, but the last five years I’ve lived here in Mississauga, Ontario. I completed it at my desk in our bedroom, where I moved last fall, during the pandemic, just in time to write the final drafts. I’d been using the study until then, which has a view of the ravine out back. My wife Ranjini is also a writer and used to prefer working at the kitchen table. However, the pandemic, with everyone working from home, made that impossible, as we all kept walking into her office to get food and beverages and were constantly distracting her. She tried writing in the bedroom, but it didn’t work for her. So I gave her back her study, moved to the bedroom, and the next thing I knew I had a book deal. They don’t recommend putting your office in your bedroom, but it worked out okay for me.
What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I write directly on the laptop. My best time to write is in the morning, when my mind is clearest, and the late afternoon, I drink coffee or tear in the morning, and often have a beer or a glass of wine when I’m writing in the late afternoon. I do listen to music. All kinds. Glenn Gould, but also The Magnetic Fields.
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.
November 1, 2012
I address this to you, Mary Abraham, because you told me how you had met Jesus in a dream and walked with him to a desert well, and in another dream met Buddha under a tree by a river and sat before him and shared a bowl of rice, and being that you are the only person I know who knows gods personally, I thought you could pass along this message. Either Buddha or Christ is fine. Whoever you happen to see first.
You shared your divine meetings with me the first and only time we met, in my office at Argyle, where I’d worked for twenty-five years. Marjorie, our receptionist, showed you to my door and, when she introduced you, I stood. You wore a saffron cotton salwar kameez (not a sari, you later corrected me) with matching dupatta, and tiny silver buttons that plunged between your breasts. “Joseph Abraham is one of your clients,” you said. You did not ask.
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, realizing that you must be Mr. Abraham’s daughter. “Not my client. You need to talk to one of my colleagues. Marjorie, is Sid in the office?”
Marjorie shook her head, knowing that I already knew the answer. “He’s out all day.”
Following company protocol, we were doing our best to deflect you. In our business, it is generally advisable to avoid dealings with the family of a client, as the family interests are not well aligned with the interests of the client or of Argyle.
You produced something from your bag, approached my desk, and held it up much closer to my eyes than was necessary. It was my business card.
“I discovered this in Mr. Abraham’s things. You have met him.”
“That’s right, I have, but I’m only the sales manager. Mr. Abraham is not my personal client. You should make an appointment to talk to Sid—Mr. Hedges. Marjorie would be glad to help you.”
You put the card back into your bag, also saffron, but silk with silver beadwork that shimmered in the fluorescent light. You shook your head, your long black hair swaying with the motion of your frustration, and you said, “I would be pleased to talk to you.” I smiled and nodded. It did not appear you were prepared to leave. I did not want you to leave. I offered you a chair and Marjorie raised her eyebrows and closed my office door.
You went on to tell me how you had talked to Buddha, talked to Jesus. Wise men and women had explained to you that only a person too shallow to understand the power and the glory of dreams would fail to understand that you had really met these men. And now you had dreamed of me and wanted to talk to me.
One of these men is not like the others.
I am half a century old and worked the last half of my life for Sid and for Argyle. Now that they’ve let me go, I don’t know who I am. I wake in the morning and miss the subway ride to work that I once hated more than anything. This morning, after I finished my coffee and a bowl of granola and yogurt, I went down to the cramped storage room under the stairs and shifted things until I found one of the cardboard boxes I’ve carried through my life’s many transitions since the 1980s. I was searching for the remainders of my previous life in Saskatchewan and Vancouver. There in a banker’s box were photos of Denise, my ex, and Sheena, my elder daughter, and I discovered my old journal and some of my fiction and poetry.
When I dug to the bottom, I found what I was looking for: the gun my famous grandfather gave me. A Browning Hi-Power in its holster, exactly where I’d placed it so many years before. It’s a nine-millimetre, his Second World War service pistol, manufactured right here in Toronto by John Inglis and Company, and the magazine holds up to thirteen shells. I also discovered a box of ammunition. At least three decades old. Do bullets have an expiry date? They’ve been stored in damp basements over the years, so perhaps I have not kept my powder dry. My grandfather taught me how to clean the weapon, but I hadn’t done it in at least twenty years. I disassembled it on the basement coffee table and polished and oiled the parts with lubricant I’d bought for my hair clippers. Once I had it back together, I slid in a single shell.
My cell phone rang.
I set the gun down on the coffee table.
My daughter Sheena. My girl was up and calling me at seven in the morning, Pacific Standard Time. Unusual, to say the least. I wondered if her mother had died.
“Hi! You’re up early. Just thinking of you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In fact, I was just looking at a photo of you. When you were six. Wearing a princess dress. You’re posed like someone about to take over the world.”
“I do like to pose.”
“You did. Let me see your face. I’ll show you.”
“Oh, god! Okay.”
Sheena appeared before me, sideways on the screen. She was still in bed, her smoky brown hair, the colour of her mother’s, spilling over her pillow, her eyes still swollen from sleep, as if it was me who had called too early and woken her. I could see every wrinkle in her white sheets. Still none on her face. No makeup to cover her freckles. She needed no makeup. She propped herself up on one arm before she spoke.
“Where are you? You’re not at work?”
“I’m in the basement. Looking at pictures of you. Here.”
I held the photo before the phone and waited. No response. I took the photo away and looked at her empty face. Apparently there was no joy in seeing her younger self.
“Looks like I was channelling the goddess.”
“It does. How are you?”
“Fine. I got your birthday present. Thanks.”
“You’re most welcome. You haven’t already read it?”
She shook her head. “No. Haven’t. I don’t read men. Especially not straight white men.”
“Oh.” This was something new and, I understood immediately, designed entirely to crush me into something so small I might easily be discarded. A man, the privileged gender. A white man, the privileged race. A straight white man, the privileged sexual orientation. Her tiny father, this privileged specimen, there before her on her tiny screen, had sent her a cheap and stupid gift to commemorate her birthday.
“Edward Albee was gay,” I said.
She flinched with a flash of interest before shrugging.
“Gay man writes about straight couple. Brave and exciting. I was hoping for a cheque. You usually send a cheque.”
“Things are a bit tight at the moment.”
“Tight? Really? What a coincidence. They’re a bit tight here too. Mom said to call you.”
“How is your mother?”
“Fine. She fell and broke her wrist. They had to put in a pin.”
“Unfortunate. That’s what comes of not drinking your milk. If you don’t drink your milk you’ll end up with osteoporosis like her.”
She let her head drop back to her pillow and rolled her eyes before closing them.
“Thanks, Dad. She doesn’t have osteoporosis. Yet.”
“Early onset. You’re welcome. How much do you need?”
“A quarter million.”
“Ah! A quarter million. That’s what you were expecting in your birthday card? You’re buying a house?”
“In Vancouver? Wouldn’t get you a garage. I’m moving to New York City. I got a fifty thousand U.S. fellowship to go to Parson’s to do my Master’s. I start next fall.”
“Well…congratulations! That’s wonderful!”
There was a pause as we studied one another, one of her finely plucked eyebrows raised in an ironic way. She was analyzing my reaction. I was trying to communicate my pride in the way I held my jaw.
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? The excerpt is from the beginning of the book, but it wasn’t always the beginning of the book. One of the hardest things was finding the beginning. Once I did that, I could finally write the end of the book, but it took me eleven years.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. I deleted at least a dozen other beginnings before I finally discovered this one.
Lee Gowan is the author of the novels Confession, The Last Cowboy, (published in France as Jusqu’au bout du ciel), and Make Believe Love, which was nominated for the Trillium Award for best book in Ontario. He also published the critically acclaimed story collection Going to Cuba, and wrote the award-winning screenplay for Paris or Somewhere. He is the Program Director for Creative Writing and Business Communications at the School of Continuing Studies, University of Toronto. His new novel The Beautiful Place will be published in 2021.