My Favorite Year (Anne Stuart)

It was November of 1971. I was twenty-three years old, my father had died the year before, and I'd been living in the Bronx (no thonks), sharing an apartment with three friends and working for the Rockefeller Foundation in Manhattan. I was there for the sole (originally I typed "soul purpose" which is probably more accurate) of supporting my music habit -- I went to the Fillmore East almost every weekend, along with all the other venues, and saw absolutely everyone. But this blog isn't about that time.

I decided it was time to move on. There weren't enough books that I wanted to read, so I chose to buy a car (when I didn't have a driver's license), quit my job and move to our family's tiny summer house in Northern Vermont to write my first book. I had absolutely no doubt it would sell -- with uncharacteristic modesty I figured I could come up with something better than half the gothics I was reading, not as good as half. So I packed up my stuff (including crates and crates of LPs) into the 1964 Dodge station wagon and had my sister and brother-in-law drive me northward and leave me.

Alone.

Not knowing anyone.

A mile from the nearest neighbor.

In the beginning I was mildly creeped out. I slept with the lights on, listening to the radio (there was a good FM radio station our of Canada), and I started to write on the beaten up little manual typewriter with elite type (most typewriters had a larger type, called Pica -- I'm guessing most of you weren't alive back then).

And I wrote. And I wrote. Single spaced, no margins, not every day but almost every day. And I lived a life of complete solitude. I was too chicken to drive into town since I didn't have a license -- I usually walked the two miles -- and I never went further afield (and the town had one general store and only about 500 residents). With three tv channels, one of them in French, a cocker spaniel for company and heat from an old Franklin stove and a kerosene space heater.

And it was glorious. I read. I listened to music. I danced around the house. I felt a zen-like serenity that I haven't felt since.

The book took its time, but when I was about twenty pages from the end (which is more like forty in a normal type and doubled space with margins) I sat down and wrote it straight through, and I've done that with every book ever since. At that point everything is all tumbling together and you're half breathless with it yourself. Best part of writing.

Of course sooner or later life intruded. I met some classically dysfunctional people, got mixed up with the wrong one, and bounced around emotionally for a year before I met my husband.

And then I lived happily ever after, with a few bumps and landmines along the way.

My sister lives in the family house now -- I live about a mile away on twenty acres. And I still love music with a fierce passion.

And that first book I was writing? Reader, I sold it. Sent it to an agent, got a contract in '73 and it was published in 1974 by a branch of Ballantine Books called (wait for it) Beagle Greatgothics. I was just shy of my 26th birthday, and I've been writer ever since. You can find it at www.abebooks.com for anywhere between $59 to $300. Not bad for a book that cost 95 cents.

There are times when I miss that year -- the serenity, the autonomy. I didn't have to do anything for anyone -- it was me and my music and my pets and my writing.

But I don't think I could do it again. Magic is magic, and you can't control it.

But when I'm worried about my children and my husband is being a pain (which is rare, but when he is he does a good job of it) I think about that year and wish I could have it again.

So what was your favorite year? The year you fell in love? When your kids were born? Did you ever have a magic time all to yourself?