MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 1)

Snow. Romantic, silent and cleansing. Snow. Trudging, bundling and bouillabaisse. Snow.

William and I had never done snow together. Being from Canada, I grew up in it. Being from Southern California, he had not and, with the exception of some ski trips and a few winter semesters, had not spent much time in it at all.

After my return from the writing conference I had started work on a novel. My confidence level as a writer was high. I wrote every day, as I believed real writers did. When William had time he sat in my office as I read him pages from the day's work.

After one such session, I looked up and bit my lip.

What? Thoughts?

He shook his head. Where is this coming from?

What do you mean?

It's rich...dense. It's robust writing and I love it. A much different voice than in the memoir.

I exhaled. Thanks. You know that means a lot.

Can't wait to hear more.

And I launched myself into a world of research and writing while William prepared to go on location to Montreal for three months. He would leave in October and I'd join him in December.

Montreal held history for me. As a young actor, I'd toured with plays to the city in winter and acted in a comedy pilot one summer. Quebec is a joyously unique part of Canada. With its own Quebecois-French dialect, its culinary expertise and a zest for beautiful art, fashion and beer, it's impossible not to be proud of the province and the jewel at its heart, Montreal.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 8)

At the restaurant the maître d' seated us on the outdoor patio and a waiter opened our bottle of wine. I hadn't eaten a thing but felt ready to throw up. I pressed my hands on my summer skirt. I looked around at the other diners. They appeared carefree and easy. I opened the menu.

What are you going to have? I asked casually.

I'm thinking the steak. How about you?

Ummm...I guess the mussels, and we shared a smile because I always order the mussels.

Good choice, he said.

I met William's eyes, lifted my shoulders and let them drop along with all the air in my solar plexus.

William raised his glass to me and whispered, It's fantastic. His eyes were wet.

Really? You think so? You liked it?

It's fantastic and she'd be fool not to represent it.

Summer of 2007 was when Peace, Purpose and Creativity locked into place for me like long-sought puzzle pieces.

Peace: Because of William's work we had a roof overhead and food on the table.

Purpose: Because of Shakespeare Club there was an important place for me to be six months of the year.

Creativity: Because of the writing conference and my writing teachers and because I had a literary agent, creativity flourished.

In July we adopted a new kitty and named her Scrabble.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 7)

Susan, Susan!

She stopped and turned as if we were in some cornball love story.

I was out of breath but managed to say, Can I send you my writing? I mean, I'm in the middle of the rewrite but—

She gave me a most tender smile and answered, Mel Ryane, the one person I really wanted to meet. Send me what you have.

Back in my dorm room, I sat cross-legged on the bed and called William. Back in L.A. he was swamped, working two projects at the same time. I couldn't get him on the phone. The most exciting event of my creative life and it would be hours before I could share it with my husband.

I called Michelle.

Remember my dream? The one where I was pregnant? I just figured out what I'm giving birth to. It's a book.

I went for dinner with friends that night. I celebrated with good wine and blushed all night at my good fortune. As I crawled into the single bed in my dorm room I finally reached William on the phone.

Sweet, so, so sweet, he said. I'm beyond proud of you. Come home and let's celebrate.

Flying back from New York that summer I knew that with a literary agent interested in my work and teachers encouraging me, it was time to take my writing much more seriously. As the plane began its descent into LAX a gentleman next to me started up a conversation. I heard the wheels of the aircraft unlock as he asked me, What do you do?

I'm a writer.

I'd never said that before. It made me smile to say it. It made it true.

I'm a writer.

That summer I holed up in my office to finish the manuscript and get it to Susan in New York City as fast as possible. I had a terrible fear that Susan's enthusiasm would dissipate, that perhaps our encounter had been a mirage.

I wrote for four straight days, twelve hours a day. I added content and spell-checked every word. I had the manuscript printed and mailed it to New York. I had a second copy printed and set it on William's desk.

William, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, was surviving on five hours sleep a night and his wife was asking him to drop everything and read her book.

I made dinner reservations at our favorite French restaurant for that Saturday evening. I bought a good bottle of wine for our meal and kept myself busy while William read my book. I gave him some coffee and left him alone. William's past criticism about my writing was erased in this single act. This was momentous for both of us. He was giving me his all.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 6)

In the summer of 2007 I returned to the writers' conference with an excerpt from my Shakespeare Club book. I read for three minutes in a packed auditorium. The women in the audience laughed and cheered. They interrupted me with applause. I was shocked, particularly since the material was slightly on the sad side.

You just never know, as they say in showbiz.

The night I read there was a particular woman in the audience. In an unusual gesture for this conference, a literary agent from Manhattan had been invited. The next day I attended a talk she was giving on the publishing world. During her address she mentioned she heard exactly one reading the night before of work she would be interested in representing.

I was sitting next to my friend and teacher, Eunice, who kicked me with her foot. She means you, Eunice mouthed.

I kicked back. Shut up.

At the end of the agent's chat I picked up one of her business cards. She was engulfed by writers pitching their projects but looked right at me and said, It's Mel, right?

Right, I mumbled, suddenly short on air. Thanks for talking to us. I'm going to a class now. Bye.

Bye, she smiled.

And I took off. Was Eunice correct? It was entirely too big for me to imagine but imagine I did and as I sat in a classroom down the hall and watched the agent walk past on her way out of the building, I knew I had to do something, and fast.

I bolted from my chair, dashed to end of the hall, pressed my hands against a large window and looked down three stories across a green grassy quad at the agent walking far away. She was probably walking all the way back to New York City, right now.

I ran faster than I ever remember running for anything. I tripped down all those stairs, I sprinted across the grass, through a gauntlet of water sprinklers. I called out.