When she’s not doing homework or buried in a book, 12-year-old Emma is working on her first novel. I present you with the first installment of her still untitled work… 

Far away, a long time ago, an elf sat in a tree at dusk. He was watching the last rays of color slip away into the darkness.  The translucent clouds became dark, and then it was all dark. Twinkling stars came out and the crickets began to chirp. The stretches of moonlight seemed to glisten upon the leaves on the woodland floor. This elf, while seeing all this come into place, was also pondering something. It was an important decision, and his life would change one way or the other. So he sat.

But, reader, I am assuming you know nothing of this elf or his life. This I am about to tell.

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A Healthy Diet of Delicious Books

You’d think, or at least I would, that volunteering at a middle school book fair might be a cozy way to spend a stormy Wednesday morning. Rain was pounding on the roof of the library, I mean media center, and thunder rumbled. I was dry and warm and surrounded by books. But the titles staring back at me from the shelves were unsettling. No wonder Helen is struggling out there. I’m surprised she has generated as much interest as she has. I can’t believe I sent her into that cold, hard world.

I offered to help at the fair because I want to be involved at my children’s school, but I also was in research mode. What’s going on with adolescents and fiction, I wondered. I knew things were bleak, but I underestimated how much. A whole table of graphic novels (called comic books back in the day)? Endless edgy fantasy series that seem inspired by video games? Violence and gore galore? And who decided that young adult titles for females all have to include the words “clique” or “gossip”?

I know you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but when more than a dozen covers in one place are spattered with blood, me thinks I sense a trend or two.

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“Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.” ~ 1 Thessalonians 4:11

Of course it happens when The Spouse is out of town: the hooting of an owl echoed through the woods last night. I was reading in bed, and the noise was almost human—and loud. I made a snap decision not to be spooked and threw open the window to hear even better. What a mournful, lonely sound.

I went to sleep half-listening and later half-woke up to hear a second owl joining in. The two didn’t start their “who-who-who-whos” in sync, but by the second “who” they were in chorus. Then it was suddenly quiet. Hmm. I felt a bit embarrassed. Well, someone was having fun.

It’s hard to miss an owl’s hooting, but I wondered if I would’ve if the radio or TV had been on, or if I’d been on the phone. The Internet has been down—that’s okay. I doubt my neighbors noticed the owl.

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Ah, the early days. The idea for a book comes and the daydreaming and planning begins. It’s a little like being in love. 

I can’t sleep. I can’t go anywhere without a notebook. Things pop into my head at the most inconvenient times. Can’t you see I’m hiking? I say to the sky. Halfway down a mountain I make up memory tricks to remind me of the notions that appear. Four silly words end up strung together, sounding like a law firm. I get to the bottom and I’ve forgotten. I’m not a good hiker, and I’m tired.

Last night I positioned my desk. It was Luke’s grandmother’s, a little lady’s writing desk. I took everything off and polished it with orange oil. I lovingly tucked into a drawer the notebooks and scraps of paper that helped me through Helen and I cleared the deck for my new girl.

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“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.” ~ Robert Frost  

I’ve been looking for it for a while now, but with a healthy dose of hesitation. I’ve been waiting to be struck with the smallest something, calling on my subconscious. Where is that lump in the throat? These things can’t be forced.

It has come, I think: an idea for a new novel. Just the tiniest notion, with nary a subplot or even a plot in sight. That’s all I need. But I can’t get too attached, not just yet. These things need to steep.

I want to fly at this, start page one. I’m making myself write this post instead. I’m remembering what Annie Dillard says in The Writing Life, something to the effect of being willing to chuck things and throw them over for something better.

It’s hard to dip one’s toe in the water. I want to dive in. There’s the temptation to blast through two gallons of paint until it’s all slapped on the walls so I can see if that shade of blue I picked out is really going to suit the room. I do dishes fast, so some get broken—even my antique crystal goblets, which is heartbreaking. I don’t want to break the crystal. Breathe deep, slow down.

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I turned 40 today, and people keep asking, Does it bother you?

I tell them it’s better than the alternative (death).

But, honestly, I keep waiting to be bothered, and I don’t have it in me. Instead, I feel sentimental (surprise, surprise), like I want to keep all the years close, like pearls on a string. Even the bad ones mean something. They are part of a story that’s still going and will keep going even after I’m gone.

I’m also overwhelmed by the warm wishes of dear ones. My cup runs over with family and friends, the grandest gift on this earth.

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“Whenever I feel afraid,
I hold my head erect
And whistle a happy tune
So no one will suspect
I’m afraid.”
~ from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The King and I

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. ~ 2 Timothy 1:7

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. ~ Philippians 4:13

This silly song and these two verses were running through my mind as I swallowed my instincts and did what the moment called for.

At 6:30 yesterday morning, my dear friends, Cristell, Missy and Beth, swept me away in the darkness to their idea of a birthday surprise:  a zip line adventure.

I was worried the second they told me to wear sweat pants and sneakers. I’m not really the sweat pants sort, and I’m definitely not the type who wants her sneakers, rescued from somewhere in the back of the closet, dangling 100 feet above ground. But these three had the best of intentions, I knew.

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