In late September, 2004, I arrived in England for my semester abroad at Oxford University. I was full of anticipation, but also apprehension: what if England turned out to be…not what I thought it was? I had been building it up in my fancy for so long as the home of all good stories – the gateway to Wonder – the hallowed land where ancient beauty, mystery, and nobility were not only preserved, but still living and active. I had enough sense to know I would not actually find Narnia, Middle Earth, or Redwall (at least, I was fairly certain I wouldn’t…), but the fact that this was the land of their origin was exciting enough.
The apprehension that England would be less England than my dreams made it did not last long. I think I was on a bus or a train, staring out the window as the ludicrously beautiful countryside rushed past, still within the first few days of my arrival, when it hit me:
This is my heart’s home.
This is the place from which my imagination comes.
This is my England, and I belong here.
I think the ache set in even then, for I knew my sojourn in my native land was both temporary and brief. I spent the next decade or so trying – and failing – to get back to England permanently. Several trips thither on holiday with friends did assuage the longing in one sense, but made it more poignant in other ways. I am reminded of a line from the Baker’s Wife (whom I had the privilege of portraying my senior year in college) in Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods:
“And to get what you wish/Only just for a moment/These are dangerous woods…”
It hurts desperately to come so close to the thing you want most in the world, only to have it taken away after ten days or two months.
Eventually, I accepted the fact that England (in general) and Oxford (in particular) may not be part of my geographical future, and I made peace with the ache that had settled irrevocably into a corner of my soul. I am deeply glad about the direction my life has taken and grateful that my transatlantic moving schemes did not work out. I am grateful even for the ache, snuggled deep into my subconscious like a bear in perpetual hibernation; for, out of this ache, Gatekeeper was born.
As for the seed of the actual story…I’ve always had a thing about gates.
One of my first days in England, when I was exploring the lanes and byways around my homestay farm in Ottery St. Mary, I came across two gates facing each other across a bare piece of ground. Nothing seemed able to grow in this no-man’s-land between two property fence-lines – nothing, that is, except one purple flower that rose out of the dust in the very center. I looked at that flower, marveling at its hardiness and wondering how it wound up growing there, of all places; and, suddenly, two words leapt to the forefront of my imagination:
Lost Prince.
At first, it was going to be a tongue-in-cheek fantasy story. I actually wrote the first few pages of it that very day; I found it just last week while going through old notebooks in preparation for moving. The main character went for a walk, saw the flower, and heard a disembodied voice speaking to her in imperfect verse, warning her of a quest and adventure just around the corner. Being a rather cheeky spirit, she replied to the voice that she would pay it no heed until it learned to rhyme properly – and kept on walking.
That was about as far as I got.
By the time I went on my post-term European tour with my new friends from Oxford, the story had already taken on a much more realistic bent in my mind. The “Lost Prince” idea was still at the heart of it, but I was beginning to think of that element as loosely allegorical: as a Christian, I believe we are all royalty – sons and daughters of the Most High King – and, therefore, a quest to return to one’s true Father (and help others one encounters along the way) could still and does still happen in the workaday world.
It was at the Berliner Dom – the gorgeous cathedral Anna encounters in Gatekeeper I: The Finding – that the pieces started to fall into place. I had climbed up all the rickety wooden stairs that wound up inside the dome and stepped out into a cold December night, the city laid out below me in every direction. Leaning on the rail and gazing out, I remarked to my friend that the stairs we had just conquered would make a great chase scene.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “So, who’s chasing who?”
And, suddenly, I was telling him the story of Gatekeeper.
I didn’t write the whole novel until a year later, as part of my senior honours thesis project at college. Still, that initial seed – the flower, the prince, the chase, the revelation – perdured. And, in telling Anna’s story, I found a way to be always in England. (Part of me, anyway.)
I am there still.
If you haven’t already, check out the Gatekeeper trilogy…
I love this tale of how the other tale came to be. Keep writing!!
My heart aches for England as well- I think the ache is similar to yours but I imagine yours is a bit more embedded as you got to live there for months and I was only a sojourner. They longing in your heart shines beautifully through every line in gatekeeper ❤ we will be there some day- together and we will pause in the mystery, the magic and the beauty
I look forward to it. Further up and further in!
In the past I considered life in England boring and lethargic, but the Gatekeeper has brought it to life. From the personalities to the description of the surroundings, it has given me a new perspective of the country. Keep on writing. 💕
I am heart-glad the books have given you a new perspective on England. ‘Tis such a dear place to me; I long to share it with others!