Jonah Dubois-Hello, how are you?

I woke up with the instant spark to write so I went with that. So far this morning has been ideal. It turns out that having the mornings off, as I suspected, are key to getting good writing in. After a healthy breakfast and a catching up on email and FB, I gathered up my laptop and previously written scenes and I headed back to my bed. Curled up with my computer writing, sipping hot tea and listening to soft music completely relaxes me. With a clear head I am able to go places that I simply cannot find after a day at work.

I have not been to Quebec for some time but now I realize I really, really have to get back there. As I recover my memoires and read about the wonders of the place I am amazed that I have allowed myself to be away for this long. A trip is in order. A tentative road trip to Massachusetts, a sort of Great Dead Authors’ tour is a possibility in March. A friend of mine is finishing her dissertation. The trip would be a treat for both of us finishing our writing projects. I think she has some French-Canadian roots so it might not be too difficult to talk her into crossing the border.

Now that I am lost in the nostalgia of Quebec Jonah’s story comes so much easier. I can see his father’s wrinkled face and his mother’s almond eyes and long black hair. I have been to the cabin where they live. Floated through the halls like the scent of freshly killed moose simmering on the stove. The three months of darkness descend on all of us. The Dubois family and I are feeling things out together.

This is an odd process. I have lived with Gabrielle for a very long time. She told me where to go and I went there. It seemed natural. Maybe because she was the first character I called upon-similar to the way that you always think of your first born-because they were first. You think of all of your children but the firstborn IS first. There is something special about that.

Gabrielle demanded my attention. She came in flurries and fought her way onto the page. Jonah beacons me with a silent finger. He lets me see before he speaks. His story begins in the soil. He needed me to see where he was from and experience a day in the life there before he truly came alive. He wanted me to know that St. Noel Chabanel was built on taiga, not tundra. That his mother was from Ontario, not Quebec and that Cody unraveled over a course of a few years, not months.

It is strange but I don’t necessarily see Gabrielle’s face. I see who she is and what she experiences and even her hair but not her face. In the past I could see Jonah’s face but I could not fully get in touch with his character. When you look at someone’s face you gather information from his or her expression. You assume certain things about what they are feelings or thinking. Now that I am there, in that tiny town in Quebec-St. Noel Chabanel is not an actual town (St. Noel Chabanel was a Jesuit missionary that wanted to mission to First Nation peoples in Quebec but only spoke French and was eventually murdered by a Native Canadian), I can see things about Jonah that build who he is that have nothing to do with how he looks. His face has faded. Now we are going to find out whom he really is.