Then one day, I write that first sentence. And then I feel that the book is real.
In the case of my new book--working title THE VENICE SKETCHBOOKS--it was an idea I have toyed with for several years, but never had an opportunity to write it. A story that takes place in Venice over many decades... 1928, then 1938, then 39-46 and then 2001. A story of a woman's secret life that her family never knew about and will only be revealed if her great niece can unlock the secrets of two sketchbooks and a box of keys.
So I did what any good writer has to do: I went to Venice last summer. I stayed at the Pensione my aunt always favored: The Pensione Accademica. I spent a day in the library of the Correr museum, surrounded by stacks of books (all in Italian!) . I walked up and down certain areas, traversed them by boat, looking for the house where my heroine will live, and the palazzo where the man she loves lives, and the places they will meet.
Venice is not new to me. When I was a teenager my parents rented a small villa in Treviso, about half an hour outside Venice. Every day they drove to the Venice parking garage, handed me and my brother some money and said, "See you at five o'clock". And the world was ours. We wandered, tried every gelateria, ate pasta and watermelon and had a great time. I took my eldest daughter when she graduated from high school. John and I have been back three or four times since. But every time I find something new, I try a new dish... spaghetti cooked in octopus ink? veal with tuna?
This time all my senses were fine tuned. What am I hearing? Seeing? Smelling? All fodder for my book.
So I was about to start in earnest when the the latest aqua alta struck last week. Second highest ever. And I realized with a jolt that I might be writing an ode to something that will not be there forever. A somber thought. I hope I bring it to life for my readers. I hope I do it justice.
Here is a snippet from the prologue, which is as far as I have come so far:
May 21, 1928
I was awoken by more bells. It
seems there are an awful lot of churches in this city. Nobody is allowed to
sleep late! I went to the window and opened the shutters that Aunt H had
insisted on closing against mosquitos. The sky was a perfect pale blue and the
sound of bells echoed over the whole city. Swallows darted and swooped across
the sky like tiny Maltese crosses, while seagulls screeched and below on the
courtyard pigeons strutted and cooed. A city of bells and birds.
After a breakfast of rolls, cheese and fruit as
well as coffee instead of tea, we went out exploring. Luckily Aunt H has
visited several times before and knew her way or I should have become
hopelessly lost in minutes. It is a complete maze of alleys, canals, bridges.
Nothing is straight or straightforward. Some streets end at canals with no way
across. To go right one must first go left. But Aunt H. led us unerringly to St
Mark’s Square. Gosh. I think for the first time in my eighteen years my breath
was taken away. I had never seen anything so magnificent as that great open
space with the church at one end and the bell tower rising impossibly tall on
one side. There were outdoor cafes with a small orchestra playing but Aunt H.
declare we had too much to see to waste time with pastries RHYS: So, dear friends, I need help. I need a title! It has to do with Venice Secrets, a Venice inheritance, Venice long ago... I've toyed with so many. Any flash of brilliance will be warmly accepted and I'll thank you in the dedication page!
