My son looked up at me from his post at the kitchen table， his blue eyes staring at me reproachfully1) from behind a spoonful of Cheerios2).

“Mum?” he asked sternly3)， stretching the word out so it bowed in the middle and ended on a higher pitch.

“What?” I was on the defensive and emotionally more than a little on the run4).

He was only 12， but he had the stance of a lawyer. While my two daughters might gracefully let me squirm5) away from an uncomfortable question， my son never will， and I owe him a debt of gratitude for pushing me on the issue we were discussing at the time.

“I asked when you were going to get your book published，” he said with a noble courtroom flourish6).

Truth to tell I had pretty much given up on the project. I had started writing a novel when the little-league lawyer in question was not much more than a twinkle in his father’s eye. Twelve years of raising three children and two stepchildren while supporting my spouse in his career as a currency trader， doing a little freelance writing and editing， then walking my father， my dog and finally the spouse himself to their death—it had all quenched7) much of my earlier enthusiasm.

I had tackled the job of replacing my husband’s income with determination but I was tired. I was lonely. I was discouraged. And I didn’t think I had any time or energy available to continue working on my novel.

Like many other would-be authors， I have wanted to become a published writer since I was about 8. I used to climb into a backyard apple tree clutching a writing tablet and a stubby HB pencil and scribble endlessly between doses of daydreaming and mouthfuls of McIntosh8). In high school， I wrote soulful and self-centred poetry about the anguish of young love and the confusion of growing up. In university， I wrote for my student newspaper.

As time went on， I realized that creative writing was unlikely to generate the income necessary to support myself， let alone a family. So I turned to jobs that would at least let me write. Journalism. Government communications. Marketing. Public relations. I felt grateful to be able to make my way in the world with language as my stock in trade9). Still， a wayward10) part of me kept thinking， “But I really want to write a novel!”

A few years into my second marriage， my husband confronted me on the topic.

“It’s something you’ve always wanted to do，” he said. “What’s stopping you?”

I had a million reasons not to do it—leading the list were self-doubt， anxiety and the fear of not being good enough. But they all dissolved in the face of his question that day. Actually， nothing was stopping me.

Other than me.

So I began the fun and endless task of creating a story. I had no clue what I was doing or how one was supposed to write a novel. I just jumped in11) and wrote. I wrote a story about a woman who faced challenge and disappointment but who gathered up her courage and learned to dream.

By the time my husband drifted off12) into his final slumber13)， I had managed to wrestle myself into completing a final draft. But I had a heart full of tears， two children to raise and a business to run. My novel seemed trivial in the face of eternity， and yet more important than ever.

We don’t know how much time we have left on this planet to make our mark， and I agonized over my own future. What if I died before seeing if my manuscript could be turned into a real book? What if my novel could actually become a published work? How would I ever know if I didn’t try?

Then again， what if my children went hungry because their mother couldn’t make a successful living as a freelancer?

Practicality quietly won the day14) and I neglected the effort to find an agent.

By the time of my son’s inquisition last spring， I had been ignoring the irritating voice in the back of my head that wanted me to pursue my dream.

“I don’t know，” I said aloud.

My son chewed thoughtfully， then took another mouthful of cereal. After a moment， he put his spoon down and looked at me wisely.

“You’re always telling us kids that we should never give up，” he said. “How can we do that if you don’t show us how?”

His words curdled15) in my heart. How indeed?

And then this: “You can do it， Mum! Pleeeease?”

And so I did.

Manor House Publishing16) released Shades of Teale at the end of November， 2011 and all three of my children are proud of their mother in a way I could never have imagined. It has been a long journey and I’ve learned much. But it appears there’s more to come. My son， now 13， feels I’ve only just started this novelist business and there is much more to be done.

“So when is your book going to be a bestseller?” he asked the other day.

I groaned. “I think we might have to give that one a little more time，” I said.

My son raised an eyebrow and looked at me skeptically. “Mum?”

我兒子坐在廚房餐桌旁的座位上，抬頭看我，從一勺奇里奧斯麥片后面露出的一雙藍眼睛緊盯著我，流露出責備的眼神。

“媽媽？”他嚴厲地質(zhì)問我，說“媽媽”兩個字時他把音拖得很長，故意中間壓低聲音，結(jié)尾抬高音調(diào)。

“怎么了？”我進入了提防狀態(tài)，表面不動聲色，內(nèi)心隱藏的情緒變化可不止一點半點。

他那時只有12歲，卻儼然一副律師的樣子。要是我的兩個女兒感覺到我對某個尷尬的問題閃爍其詞，她們也許會大度地放我一馬，讓我糊弄過去。但我的兒子卻決不會輕易放過。我們當時正在討論的那件事就是他督促我去做的，為此我欠他一個人情。

“我是問你的書到底什么時候能出版？”他一邊說，一邊像在法庭上那樣莊重地把手一揮。

老實說，我?guī)缀醴艞夁@個計劃了。我開始寫小說那會兒，眼前這個向我發(fā)難的小律師在他父親眼里還只是個小不點。在過去的這12年里，我要養(yǎng)育我的三個孩子以及我丈夫和他前妻所生的兩個孩子；我要支持丈夫做外匯交易的工作；我自己還要做一些自由撰稿與編輯的工作；之后我要陪我父親散步，陪我家小狗散步，最后又陪我丈夫散步，直到他們最后一個個都離我而去。所有這一切幾乎“澆”滅了我早年的寫作熱情。

丈夫去世后，我毅然決然地接替他挑起家里的經(jīng)濟重擔。但我覺得累了，感到孤獨了，喪失信心了。我覺得自己既沒有時間也沒有精力去繼續(xù)創(chuàng)作我的小說了。

和其他許多準作家一樣，大概自八歲起，我就一直夢想著能成為一名作家，出自己的書。以前，我常常帶上一本便簽簿和一截粗短的HB鉛筆，爬到后院的一棵蘋果樹上，在做白日夢和啃蘋果的間隙，不停地在本子上涂涂寫寫。上中學時，我以自己為中心，寫深情款款的詩，談青澀戀情的苦惱和成長的困惑。讀大學時，我為學校的學生報紙撰稿。

隨著時間的推移，我意識到，文字創(chuàng)作所帶來的收入可能連我自己都養(yǎng)不活，更不要說養(yǎng)活一家人了。于是，我轉(zhuǎn)向做其他至少可以讓我寫點東西的工作，比如新聞工作、政府通訊、市場營銷、公共關系。我很慶幸，自己能夠以語言為謀生手段在這個世界上立足。然而，我的內(nèi)心總有一個任性的聲音在不停地抗議：“但我真正想做的是寫一本小說！”

再婚幾年后，我的丈夫與我當面談論起這個話題。

“你一直都想寫小說，”他說，“是什么阻止你付諸行動了呢？”

我不行動的理由太多了，其中排在前三位的理由是自我懷疑、焦慮和擔心自己不夠優(yōu)秀。但那一天，面對丈夫的問題，所有這些理由都不復存在了。實際上，沒什么阻礙我創(chuàng)作。

除了我自己。

于是，我開始著手寫小說，這項工作漫無止境但妙趣橫生。我并不清楚自己在做什么，或者小說該怎么寫。我只是熱切地投入其中寫起來。我寫了一個女人的故事，她遭遇了很多挑戰(zhàn)和挫折，但還是鼓起勇氣，學會了懷揣夢想。

我的丈夫最終長眠不醒、離我而去時，我已掙扎著完成了小說的終稿。但那時的我傷心欲絕，有兩個孩子要撫養(yǎng)，還有攤生意要經(jīng)營。面對時間的永恒，我的小說顯得微不足道，但在此時，卻又比任何時候都顯得重要。

我們想在這個星球上留下印記，但不知道自己還剩多少時間。我苦苦思索自己的未來。如果我還不知道自己的手稿能否出版就撒手人寰該怎么辦？如果我的小說真的能出版，又會怎樣？如果我連試都不試一下，又怎么能知道這些問題的答案？

然后，還是那個問題：如果我的孩子因為自己的母親無法靠自由寫作成功地維持生計而忍饑挨餓，那該怎么辦？

實際的現(xiàn)實問題不知不覺中占了上風。于是，我就不再費力去找圖書代理商了。

我兒子問起出版小說這件事是去年夏天的時候。在那以前，雖然我的腦海里總會出現(xiàn)刺激我的聲音，告訴我要追求自己的夢想，但我一直對之置若罔聞。

“我不知道?！蔽掖舐曊f。

我兒子若有所思地嚼著他的麥片，接著又往嘴里送了一大口。過了一會兒，他放下手中的勺子，狡黠地看著我。

“你總跟我們這些小孩兒說，應該永不放棄，”他說，“可如果你不言傳身教，我們又怎么可能做得到呢？”

他的話堵在我的心里。確實，怎么可能呢？

接著他又說：“你能做到的，媽媽！求——你了！”

于是我真的做到了。

2011年11月底，我的小說《蒂爾的回憶》由馬諾爾書屋出版公司出版。我的三個孩子如此以我為傲，要不是出書，我絕對想象不到他們會有這樣的反應。這是一段漫長的旅程，我從中受益良多。但似乎一切并未結(jié)束。我的兒子如今13歲了，他覺得我的小說家之路才剛剛開始，未來要做的事還多得很。

“那么，你的書什么時候能成為暢銷書呢？”前幾天他這樣問我。

我不滿地哼哼兩聲，說：“我覺得要實現(xiàn)這個目標，可能得多給點時間?！?/p>

我兒子揚起眉毛，用懷疑的眼神看著我說：“媽媽？”

1.reproachfully [r#618;#712;pr#601;#650;t#643;f#601;li] adv. 責備地

2.Cheerios：奇里奧斯麥片，美國通用磨坊公司的五谷食品品牌

3.sternly [st#604;#720;nli] adv. 嚴厲地，苛刻地，堅決地

4.on the run：隱藏著

5.squirm [skw#604;#720;m] vi. 蠕動

6.flourish [#712;fl#652;r#618;#643;] n. 揮舞，揮動；(尤指意在引人注目的)一揮

7.quench [kwent#643;] vt. 熄滅

8.McIntosh：麥金托什蘋果，是一種紅綠皮、味道偏酸的蘋果品種，在加拿大東部和新西蘭最為流行。

9.stock in trade：(某行業(yè)所必需的)營業(yè)用具

10.wayward [#712;we#618;w#601;d] adj. 任性的

11.jump in：(熱切地)參與；(一下子)投入

12.drift off：迷迷糊糊地睡去

13.slumber [#712;sl#652;mb#601;(r)] n. 睡眠

14.win the day：獲勝，成功

15.curdle [#712;k#604;#720;dl] vi. 凝結(jié)，凝固

16.Manor House Publishing：馬諾爾書屋出版公司，加拿大的一家小型出版公司，成立于1998年。