It was a time of recession, and there seemed no possibility of securing a job of similar scope in the small media world that is Northern Ireland. I had hit a wall in terms of my career and my life.
In the first year of my redundancy, on dark winter mornings I was woken at my usual time by the wave of adrenaline which had once propelled me out of bed to jog on icy footpaths and into the office by 9am but which had now turned to the acid of anxiety.
Once the rest of the family had left the house for work and school, I would attempt to find distraction in a book, desperate to soak up the mental energy I had previously focused on my job.
I’d been an avid reader since my childhood but in my state of agitation, literary fiction just didn’t cut it and my own, maudlin thoughts kept intruding. In despair I reached for something stronger and darker, and I don’t mean chocolate — no, I needed dark deeds and avenging angels — I needed liars and betrayers tracked down relentlessly and punished. I needed plot, immersive mood and to be in the safe hands of a writer in total control of their craft.
That’s when I picked up a Michael Connelly book and met Harry Bosch.
The Desire Line by Jane Cassidy
Oh, the relief of being inside someone else’s head for a blessed hour each morning. I was like a chain smoker, lighting one fag from the other — ensuring I had another Michael Connelly lined up before finishing the last. I discovered there were other writers who could work the same magic.
I revelled in the absolutist universe of Lee Child, hearing the crack of bones as Jack Reacher put the world to rights in some back alley Stateside.
I progressed to the glorious creepiness of domestic noir in the books of Ruth Rendell and Sophie Hannah where sleepy suburbia is alive with mystery and skulduggery. I was addicted and like all addicts was spending a lot of money buying thrillers — money I felt guilty about spending on myself since I was no longer earning.
It was time to try some DIY, as in have a go at writing one myself. I reasoned that this at least might take more time than simply reading, something I seemed to have too much of. At this point I should warn aspiring writers that this is not a quick fix if your goal is to be a published author. It wasn’t even a quick fix for my existential crisis, but it helped immensely.
A decade on I’m convinced the act of writing probably offers many of the benefits of meditation — something I’ve never managed to master.
To write, I have to slow down my thoughts, create a world for my characters to inhabit then record how they react to the circumstances I invent for them.
It is an utterly absorbing activity. Put simply, I wrote my way out of trouble.
There were other consolations in my life of course.
I did find employment again, if only short-term contracts and part-time working in the arts which I adored and the pain of leaving the BBC family gradually faded.
I started singing again, first in a choir then solo as I had done when I was younger. But writing became core to my health and happiness.
Someone recently asked me if I’m disciplined about my writing and do it every day. I got an odd look when I said I didn’t need to be disciplined since I was now addicted to it and miss it terribly if I don’t do it. That, of course is only partially true.
The initial act of creation is the best bit. I sit with my feet up at my bay window and scribble in long-hand in a large notebook.
I know no-one will ever read this first draft so I don’t sweat it — I enjoy it. From there on discipline is required to re-write and edit till all is no more. That’s the hard part! But I do love having it to do — the sense of purpose.
I was ambitious for my writing from the start though I didn’t admit that to anyone — least of all myself. I wonder if I’d known then it would take me 10 years to get a publishing deal if I’d have persevered? I think I probably would — I enjoy it so much.
And this story, The Desire Line, I’ve written which finally got me a book deal is about the short-cuts people sometimes take to the object of their desire and the harm they do to others in the process.
One of my central characters practises the Wicca religion — witchcraft to you and me. She believes in the power of three, where every negative thought or action will be returned to us by the power of three.
She’s a shape-shifter — an unreliable witness to her own life, leaving the reader unsure if she is victim or villain until the story nears its denouement.
But fear not, for I want you to meet and fall for my sleuth, Jer (Jeremiah McCabe), an investigative journalist and film-maker, not a detective.
But I guarantee you’ll trust him — trust his good nature and his loyalty to those he loves. You’ll love him for his flaws, the way I do — for his flakiness at work and his tenderness towards his troubled wife, for he’s the good guy, determined to protect the vulnerable and see justice done. I like being in Jer’s head. You might too!
The Desire Line is Jane Cassidy’s first novel and is published by Poolbeg Press
