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I started to write this story in Durham, Maine, on a Saturday morning after the 6 a.m. barn chores. I kicked off my steel-toe muck boots, returned upstairs (still wearing my partly torn PJ bottoms) and dived back into the king size bed that came with the pre-furnished apartment. Ravished by 14-hour work days, devastating homesickness, and my second burnout of the year, I felt the need to write about my pain.
I wrote the first two chapters by hand and sent them to Jill Cobb Arthur. I chose her because she refuses to grow tired with the endless articles, stories and blog posts I send her for proofreading, and because she gave me the notebook in which I wrote the chapters. Months later, as I was sucked back into my strenuous minute-schedule, Jill sent me a message: “How’s the book coming? Can’t wait to read what happens with the red sweater!”
Job hunting was often a full-time job for me when I lived in the US. I drove my rickety, red VW Beetle around the state line of Maine and New Hampshire, dropping off resumes. One crisp Monday afternoon, I parked my bug on Stephen Swecker’s driveway. He never answered the doorbell, but I filled his mailbox with writing samples and a query letter for a job. He sent me an uplifting email the very same night. Stephen couldn’t offer me a job but did the next best thing: he complimented the first pages of the book. The few emails we exchanged that night pushed me forward with the writing process over the next year. Once the first draft was complete, I sent Stephen a one-line email: “I fin(n)ished it.”
Writing is a private process for me. To share my writer’s doubt with friends isn’t something I prefer to do. Moving around North America and finally across the big sea never left much time for friendships, but one friend stayed in touch, almost daily, no matter what state or continent I lived in. Luna Mrkovacki never failed to tell me how ridiculous I am when writer’s doubt got me hyperventilating over our Skype chats. A single message from her (followed by an angry-face emoji) got me up and writing again: “Stop it! Stop doubting yourself! Don’t make me come over there!”
One job after another, each hometown fading as we moved to yet another, thousands of dollars spent in making (mostly my) dreams come true, Chris DeVere never rolled his eyes when I told him that I wanted to be a writer when I grow up. He agreed to live in a near endless stream of barnyards across the country and listen to me rambling about the wonderful and nasty, drama-filled equestrian world. He cooked us dinner after his double shifts, brought me coffee in bed in the morning (even in the middle of a temporary, domestic quarrel), and without a word of complaint, packed our moving boxes into the red truck when it was time to go again... and again... and again. When I tell him what I want to be when I grow up, he only has one thing to say: “Well then, sit down and write.”
Thank you, Chris, Luna, Stephen, and Jill, for pushing me to continue writing the first book of the “Borderline” series. I would also like to thank all my family, blood and non-blood, for continuously being there for me during my journey of craziness. Your support is the best high.
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