Award-winning photographer and writer Osvalde Lewat shares the winding path that led her to write her novel in this edition of Behind the Story. What began as a long-postponed dream became an unexpected lesson in patience, and perseverance. From bargaining with herself to confronting the realities of the creative process, her story is a candid reflection on what it truly takes to bring a book to life.
For years, writing and I were engaged in a long hide-and-seek game. I would tell myself: “Soon. I’ll start soon. Just one more exhibition, one more film, and then I’ll do it.” The novel I carried within me haunted me, yet I kept it far away from me. I even ended up making a deal with my ancestors: “If the next exhibition I’m preparing is as successful as I hope it will be, I’ll stop everything and start writing.” The exhibition exceeded all my expectations, but I didn’t stop.
One day, on my way to the opening of one of my exhibitions, I missed a few steps on a staircase. Four, to be exact. And life, mischievous as ever, forced me to stay still thanks to a minor sprain. I could barely move around for an entire year. Stuck at home, I had no choice but to pick up my computer and begin writing my novel. Since I was spending my days doing nothing but writing, I was convinced that within three or four months I would have a finished novel ready to send to publishers. Whenever I grew tired of writing, I would flip through online directories and make a list of publishing houses to which I would send my manuscript.
After six months, I completed a first draft. It was unreadable. But I didn’t know it, because I had written it in one breath, convinced the muse had spoken to me. Impatient and excited, I sent it — the moment I typed the final sentence — to a few close friends of mine known for not beating around the bush. The same day, one of them told me: “Above all, don’t quit photography. And think very carefully before deciding to become a writer, alright?”
Then I reread what I had written. I could not believe I was the one who had produced something so infect. That is when I became aware of the immense gap between what existed in my mind and what I had actually crafted on the pages. Two months. It took me two months to swallow my pride. Then I humbly went back to work with patience. Instead of the three or four months I had imagined it would take to finish my novel, I made it three years to be done.
SHOP The Aquatics
