Turning Point.

On Wednesday I managed to finish the first draft of a novel. On Sunday my daughter will be born. Today I am composed of a million rapidly expanding particles, most of which are running errands.

I worked damn hard to get the draft of that novel done whilst also looking after my son and my heavily pregnant wife. But now, thank fuck, it’s there on the hard drive. It’s in pretty terrible shape at the moment, which is a little dispiriting from the point of view that this novel represents the culmination of approximately twenty-five years of wanting to be a writer and thirty-five years of lived experience. To come out of the end of that with a fairly generic murder-mystery is a little bit underwhelming.

On the other hand, a lot of people thought – while those who love me worried – that I might never finish anything on my own. Their anxiety wasn’t without justification. I’m capable of serious work when I need to be, but I’m also susceptible to losing momentum. Or, to come at it from another angle, the problem is not that I don’t take literature seriously, but that I can't take myself that seriously.

Anyway, the driving force behind getting the first draft done this week was the aforementioned arrival of our daughter – at 11am this Sunday, to be precise. The build-up to this moment has not been easy. We didn’t plan to have a second child so soon, and were quite taken aback when we found out. It coincided with some other fairly monumental stuff in my wife’s life, and we were really struggling to keep our heads above water for a while – both financially and emotionally.

But now, a few days before she comes, I feel so excited and positive. The novel is done, for now. I’ve got work coming in (editorial stuff; very interesting), and the prospect of something else next year. Our son is waking up to the world in the most exciting ways – tantrums, of course, with the age he’s at, but also growing independence and wonder (you can actually see him developing his imagination piece by piece, moment by moment).

As someone who’s always been afraid of ascribing permanence to emotions and relationships, I’m finally beginning to settle into the possibility that this happiness isn’t a day to day fluke, but something intrinsic to this situation – and therefore it’s something which won’t falter or run out, but that will grow through being shared with this little girl and which we can therefore lavish abundantly on this little girl.

Over the past few months, I’ve sent some pretty intense emails to my best mates in the UK wondering how on earth we’ll cope. For a while it felt like each new day was a steep ascent which we stared up at from the morning just hoping we'd make it to the top while, behind each fresh ridge or escarpment was the dark shoulder of the unknown – of what it would be like when we had two kids and the same issues to face (money, mostly – isn’t it always?).

But now, perhaps only for now, it all feels different. I have some faith that, whatever happens, there are some things which are absolute and immutable. One of them is my love for my wife, the other is her love for me, the third is our love for that little boy who’s napping next door and for that little girl who’s slowly orbiting round in the darkness to face the light. Behind all that there is perhaps a greater love, which has something to do with the careful human business of employing love to transcend suffering – but that’s none of my business.

The sun’s shining outside.

P.S. I’ve also got shedloads of new books to read in the gaps between feeds, including Bring Up The Bodies – so excited.

P.P.S. São Paulo, where circumstances seemed to be forcing us to stay, is increasingly looking like somewhere we can fit in. I am learning how to enjoy this sprawling . I am excited by discovering new bits of street art, by urban  street art, the cultural life of the city, the shop selling woodcut t-shirts which I found yesterday, the plants   is also looking less