Free After Tehran by Marina Nemat Page B

the right match for every writer. I believed that the right publishing house for me was out there, and I had to persevere and find it.
    Altogether, I took seven creative writing courses to obtain the Certificate in Creative Writing from the School of Continuing Studies at the University of Toronto. My manuscript became my Final Project—the last step before graduation. For the Final Project Tutorial, I had to submit eighty pages of my work to an instructor who would work with me to improve it. Then I had to defend my work in front of the Final Project Panel, which consisted of Lee Gowan, my Final Project Tutorial instructor, and one other instructor from the school or a prominent member of the literary community.
    From the available instructors for the Final Project, I chose Rachel Manley. Lee Gowan had recommended her, and I had read her wonderful memoir,
Drumblair
, winner of the Governor General’s Award in 1997.
    Rachel Manley is the daughter of Michael Manley, who was the prime minister of Jamaica from 1972 to 1980 and then again from 1989 to 1992. Initially, I had resisted reading her memoir. Unlike me, Rachel came from a privileged family. I believed that we couldn’t possibly have anything in common. I was nobody and she was the daughter of a prime minister. She had probably lived a very comfortable life and had always had everything she had ever dreamed of. What would a woman like her write about?
    I read Rachel Manley’s book, hoping to learn from it, and I felt ashamed for the judgment I had placed on her. Yes, she was privileged, but she had had her own trials, and she had beautifully put them into words. She had transported me to Jamaica, a country I knew almost nothing about. Through her words, I felt her love forher country, as if I had been there and had seen its beauty through her eyes, the eyes of a curious little girl raised by her grandparents, trying to find her place in the world. In an odd way, maybe my life had been easier than Rachel’s, because I had had no legend to live up to.
    I decided to give Rachel my entire manuscript, even though I was only supposed to send her eighty pages. How could I take my life apart? That would be like dissecting a body and offering only an arm or leg to explain the person.
    She asked me to deliver the manuscript to her house so we could meet and chat. I got off the subway a few stops too early and decided to walk the rest of the way even though her home was quite a distance. It was just before 10:00 a.m. Most stores were still closed and office workers were already at work, so the street was quiet. Every few minutes a red streetcar glided by. It was the end of summer, and the sun had already grown weaker. In Tehran, the weather had never been an important factor in my life because the weather was usually good. With the Alborz Mountains north of the city, Tehran does not have a desert climate and enjoys mild springs and falls, hot dry summers, and relatively cold winters, including some snowfall. Shortly after we arrived in Toronto, the obsession Canadians have with weather surprised me. Didn’t they have anything better to talk about? I gradually discovered the reason for their fixation. Anyone who has waited for a bus at –28°C with a wind chill of –37°C understands what I mean. In most parts of Canada, good weather is a novelty, something to be savoured and cherished. Once summer ends, I try to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as often as I can, because I know that the mercilessly long winter is just around the corner. How fortunate I am to live in a country where bad weather ranks as one of its people’s biggest problems!
    My mind went back to Rachel. She could hate my manuscript. She might not be the Rachel I had come to know from
Drumblair
.After all,
Drumblair
was a book and Rachel was a person. Was Jane Austen truly the person I came to know through her writings? Even though she wrote fiction, now that I wrote, I understood that a writer cannot