Nine months ago I went to see Sister Faye, a renowned spiritual adviser. She told me I would write a book this year and that it would be a love story. I balked. I am the most unromantic woman I know. My mother has been married five times. My younger sister just divorced. What would I have to contribute to discussion of love? Then, she told me not to worry about writing the book because God would write the first several chapters for me.
So, after all the research finally arrived and after weeks of culling through it, organizing it, and cataloging the catalogs, I could no longer avoid writing. So, I sat down to my computer and waited for God.
That's funny, given that if I'm anything, I'm Buddhist, and a Buddhist waiting for God is like a fish waiting for the ocean. They are made of each other, even though they have independent qualities. (I promise, this post isn't about the esoteric nature of eastern philosophy).
I now have the first 40 pages of a novel fleshed out. Happy Days! But God didn't write them. Something mystical has manifest in my life, however.
People have shown up exactly when I needed them and key facts have appeared just as I was getting sucked into the quicksand that is historical research.
An example:
Yesterday, I was sitting on my black futon staring at the computer like the enemy it was. I did not want to write. I was N-O-T G-O-I-N-G to write. But, I knew I had to write.
I was tackling a section of the story of which I had little knowledge - Mary's house and Hampstead generally. I write linearly and not having information or not having access to information about a section can halt my writing indefinitely.
Then, from no where, inspiration struck. I received an email from Deborah Moggach (Yes, for the studied the Deborah Moggach). Visit her here: www.deborahmoggach.com
She told me her mother owned the house at No. 2 Priory street and have lived there for 20 years. She also told me her mother had no knowledge of the house's history but found the flat to be haunted by the sound of a child screaming and red splotches mysteriously appearing on the wall. Her mother was so concerned by the splotches and screams, she called the local vicar to have the house exorcized. Consequently, the hauntings stopped.
How interesting. Mary too suffered from frightening hauntings. Were Phoebe and Tiggie reaching out from the dead?
Later, Deborah's mother was visited by a reporter working on a feature spot about famous British crimes. Then, she learned of the terrible deeds committed in the kitchen.
Deborah has invited me to tour No. 2 Priory Street (now Ivor Street) when I visit England this spring. I've posted a photo the bridge she must have passed under on her way to dispose of the bodies.
I'm eager to visit the lovely, little house at No. 2 Priory Street, and see if Mary or Phoebe will speak to me.
