Did I finish it? No. No, I did not. I got near the end and then said, “Fuck it. Life is too short.”

If you are a regular reader, you know I’ve been piecing together this horrifying puzzle of the inside of Alcatraz for the last two months. It was what I could get when I needed a puzzle in the worst way. Since then, I’ve been gifted and offered several puzzles from kind friends, and I KNOW FOR A FACT that they won’t kill me like this one nearly did.

After two months, it had become a matter of honour. I have to finish this thing. Who was I trying to impress? No one. Who cared whether I finished the thing or not? Not a soul (except me).

Stu will fit a piece or two of the Xmas puzzle if he happens to wander through mom’s dining room in search of baking, but it’s not really his thing. Puzzles are a family affair and without my family, this seriously became a slog. I would walk past it, and it would glare at me like, “Oh Kiiiiimmmm….. You haven’t touched me in a weeeeeeek…”

Me: “Shut up, Alcatraz! LALALA I can’t hear you.”

This is as far as I got:

I can hear you now: “Oh no! But you were so close!” Looks are deceiving, dear reader. Looks. Are. Deceiving. I was nowhere near close.

You’ll note on the left side in the central panel (looking top to bottom), two rows of orange cells converging in some vanishing point of hallway. You can see that there is room enough for one vertical row of pieces to connect the two cell blocks in a satisfying orange and white click. I had that vertical row all put together. The left side of it fit snugly into the prongs and holes of the pieces on the left, but did they fit into the pieces on the right? THEY DID NOT.

Somewhere along the line of putting together this puzzle in which every piece looks exactly the freaking same as every other piece, I had put together something spectacularly off.

Had this been the first time, I’d have soldiered on, taking apart the two rows of cells until I found the bugger that I’d inserted incorrectly, and which led to the chain of events now unfolding. But this was THE SIXTH TIME I’d had to undo a large section of puzzle to see what I’d done wrong.

~~

I remember years ago sitting with Stu to watch an unbelievably bad movie (Avatar. Don’t @ me). After twenty minutes, I said, “You’ll watch anything,” and left the room to read in my office. To be fair, the movie could have gotten better, but I didn’t wait around to find out. (And I also think people should enjoy what they enjoy. I’m certainly not kakking on Avatar. Some of my favourite movies would make you shake your head. I’ve seen The Wedding Singer at least two dozen times.)

Some time later, Stu found me on the couch trying to read The Da Vinci Code. Why I was reading it, I have no idea. I had just made it to page fifty-something, when the headlights of the vehicle in the alleyway were “twinkling mockingly” up at Sophie, trapped in the Louvre. I was swearing at the book under my breath when Stu came into the room and said, “You’ll read anything.”

I decided there and then that no, I will not read anything, and threw the book at the wall. I don’t know how it turns out, but that book doesn’t seem to have changed the world much. If you love it, forgive me. Once again, I’ve not got a leg to stand on. I stand outside the bookstore salivating the day a new Anne Rice vampire novel comes out.

Since then, I’ve regularly put down books that haven’t pulled me in by page fifty (I use that number as it’s as far as I got in The Da Vinci Code). I do it all the time. I will shut off movies that are awful, I will let people go if they’ve hurt me beyond forgiveness, and I will miss acknowledging Facebook birthdays and anniversaries. Not because I’m a terrible person (I’m pretty sure I’m not) but because I have to decide how best to use the time I have.

So, WTAF with this puzzle? When I was determined to finish it, I would put on some Little River Band or Billy Joel, sing, and pop the odd piece in. I know now what I was doing. It’s what I’ve always done with puzzles, only I’d never realized it till now. Puzzle making is a brain game. All I can think (and I often vocalize it) is, “Okay. This piece is going to have orange on the left, white on the right, and a black stripe at the bottom.” I repeat that to myself, also noting whether it’s predominantly knobs or holes or some mixture. I look for that piece until I find it.

I do jigsaw puzzles the way I used to stage manage. Everything organized just so. Find this one piece. No distractions. As I worked this puzzle, I became calm as I couldn’t overthink the possible collapse of human civilization. That’s a hell of a weight we’re all carrying around in our fragile heads. No wonder we need puzzles.

I’m grateful to that puzzle for giving me hours of time in which I couldn’t think of anything else, and for the reminder that it’s okay to give shit up if it’s just not working.

Ah, all those lovely red sticky-out things. I got most of them right.
~~

A puzzle, like a manuscript, benefits from someone else looking at it for you. But if even the person helping you with it can’t see where you’ve messed up the orange cells, you’re likely hooped.

I’ve abandoned at least four full-length manuscripts in my time. The most notable one for my purposes here was about Al Capone. I’ve looked at a lot of photos of Alcatraz (a puzzle like this lends itself to YouTube rabbit holes), and I suspect that the one open cell at the top centre was Capone’s cell. Although there were plenty of notorious prisoners at Alcatraz, Capone was probably the most (in)famous.

I’d written a novel about a woman whose afterlife hell is running a bar in Moose Jaw where Capone and his gang allegedly hung out. I wrote that book for years. Lots of people read it. I shopped it around. No one wanted it. I went to Chicago to try to find what I was missing. The feeling I needed to complete it. Nope. After that trip, I deleted every file. It’s gone.

It wasn’t until I abandoned the Alcatraz puzzle that I realized I’d deleted a related book. I love coincidence because it makes us see patterns that aren’t there. I’m pretending this is part of some grand plan I’d unconsciously made for myself.

~~
What was I trying to prove? That I could finish a difficult jigsaw puzzle? I’ve done that dozens of times so it wasn’t something that needed proving. My need to finish what I started? Who cares? Is there a medal for finishing it? No.

What was I trying to prove with my abandoned book? That I could finish a book? I’ve done that over and over. Was anyone waiting for this book to come out? Unlikely. What if I never finished it? Who cares? Is there a medal for finishing it? No.

I estimate that 18% of the people who say to me, “I can’t wait to read your next book!” actually mean it. I am fortunate in that I do have a readership, and I’m confident that some of my readers occasionally think, “When is Beach coming out with a new book?” But I bet that thought is fleeting. If my readers are anything like me, this is the thought process: “When is [insert favourite author here] coming out with a new boo… did I unplug my flat iron? What month is it anywa….. SQUIRREL!”

~~

The moment I decided to give up on the puzzle was not the moment when the orange and white vertical row I had so perfectly put together didn’t fit where I knew it should. It was slightly after that when I had turned my attention to the upper right and the sea of white and grey that that was going to be. I fit a piece that didn’t look anything like what I imagined it would. I thought, “That’s not what I expected.” Then out loud, I said, “You’re living in a dream world of expectation, Beach.”

I looked up, acknowledged that that might have been the truest thing I’ve ever said to myself, and started to take the puzzle apart. Stu came into the room a little concerned. I’m sweary, and I like that about myself. But at that moment, to paraphrase Ralphie in A Christmas Story, I was aware of a steady torrent of obscenities and swearing pouring out of me. I took it apart and gave it to a friend, who finished it inside a week, all the pieces fitting perfectly. She sent photographic proof:

~~

That puzzle was meant for her, not me. Maybe someone else will write the great Al Capone Novel, but it won’t be me. (Actually, it’s already written. Read the Tunnels of Time series by Mary Harelkin Bishop.)

Giving up on something you’ve written isn’t failure. No writing is wasted. Similarly, none of my puzzle time was wasted because it helped me forget what the world was going through so I could finish the damn radiator in the lower right corner.

The world might not be waiting for your book. Some people might be. Most aren’t. It’s incredibly freeing to realize that we don’t have to finish puzzles or books or movies or anything else to live up to other people’s expectations, or even our own. Am I a failure because I abandoned a puzzle and a novel about Al Capone? Absolutely not. They just weren’t for me, and they no longer gave me joy. Nothing wrong with letting go of what doesn’t make you happy any more.

On Giving Up (and why it's okay)