Thoughts about story hummed all through yesterday, story not as diversion or means of making sense but as lifeline.  

It had been a black morning I couldn’t shake, with blue bite marks on my arm from special-needs Sadie and my stirred-up spirit not letting go of the violent storm. I shook my fists at the thief, the unnamed neurological thing that robs smiling, delighted child and brings a shadow of angst and impulse and then confused regret. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I rock her in my arms, I know, I know.

My insides felt raw, burned and scarred, not unlike after a bad high school breakup. (Note to self: Let me not belittle my teenage girls’ heartaches when they come. The feelings are dire, even if the circumstances are not.)

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 I’ve never been good at hesitating, except when it comes to driving.

“What are you waiting for—traffic?” my dad would say to 16-year-old me waiting endlessly to pull out of the drive.

Yesterday a car beeping behind me brought back the old familiar, Oh! I could have gone. I sped off and wondered why I drive like a ninny sometimes. It came, that one word lately being revealed to me as the answer to lots of questions, frustrations, stumbling blocks: fear.

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When you come to the end of yourself, sometimes the only thing to do is laugh.

After last week’s good, long pout, it dawned on me I needed to just roll my eyes at how seriously I was taking myself. The children had gone back to school, and after a busy Monday of tidying up loose ends around the house, I was bereft. What was I supposed to do now? Something important, surely. Something kingdom-glorifying and worthy of all those quiet hours between the sound of bus brakes at the end of the drive.

So I walked the dog and read good books and puttered around the garden and waited for The Big Answer. By Thursday I was begging Him to tell me what to do.

Write, silly.

Well, I replied, I sort of figured that much. Good to know, nonetheless. But, if you please, write what? Something for you, certainly. Something bigger and better than I’ve written before. And, as long as I’m placing my order, something those literary agents will snatch up instead of spending eons deciding whether to take me on or spit me out like yesterday’s Bazooka. (Right now a handful of them are taking their sweet-as-sorghum time over considering my last project. I thought New Yorkers were notoriously speedy.)

Perhaps some of the pressure over what to write is because of this publishing purgatory I’ve put myself in. Can I really stand to shove another book under my bed? Then there’s all that motive checking, which goes something like: Idea. Is that too commercial? Idea revised. Who would read that? I wouldn’t. New idea. What a sell-out. Idea chucked. Nap.

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Here I go again, sending my (next) girl out into the cruel world of publishing.

Will she hold up against vampires and secret societies and mean girls, oh my? Ada Gladwell is only an ordinary twelve-year-old with real problems.

This one was written so straight from the heart, it hurt. If you want a glimpse of what life’s like at the Boggs house, maybe, just maybe, you can read Shelby’s Sister someday—in the form of ink on pages, bound and from the bookstore shelf. Shelby is based on my Sadie, and the book is dedicated to her twin sisters, Emma and Maggie. Even the novel’s eccentric old uncle was inspired by a friend’s uncle. (I’ll never tell whose.)

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Emma ran out onto the screened porch Wednesday night, green spiral poetry notebook in hand, to capture the oncoming weather with words. Dinner was ready, and then it was shower time and bed time, but she begged to be excused. Poetry earns a pardon around here.

An expection,

a whisper—

the air is tense.

Trees converse in nervous murmurings,

The white of heated iron

is in the wind and sky.

The heavens give a gusty sigh,

The earth rises up to meet it.

Trees seem to bend to the will

of an unearthly being.

Waves of the sea are in the land,

invisible yet.

A breath, a blow

scattered here and there.

The forests are found in contemplation,

wondering which of the green giants

will be the first to relinquish their glory.

Pine boughs are curving up

reaching skywards,

hoping for hope,

wishing for something to wish on

and dreaming of something—anything

to dream of,

For their fate seems decided.

Certain branches are stretching out,

unfurling their ravenous claws,

because these trees only live

for the blackened, sinister skies

of cruel, dark eyes

and innocent cries,

For a storm is coming—

tonight.

When I woke up this morning, I didn’t know today would be the day I would type The End. I knew I was getting close to finishing my book, but I never know exactly where my fingers are going to lead me. I just follow.

And so I’ll celebrate the wrapping up of almost six weeks of insanity—with five days to spare. This weekend my writing partner and I will be treated to a dinner outing by our oh-so-supportive husbands. Tonight, I want a bubble bath and my bed.

I’m happy but exhausted. I’ve had more cups of coffee than I ever wanted, and today I sat in Starbucks and said good-bye to my people with a mocha in one hand and tears in my eyes. Tomorrow I kick caffeine, which I think I’ve become addicted to for the first time in my life.

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Young Emma’s saga continues with the second section of Chapter Two…

The elves in the offices below the Great Room of Treek’s Top were hearing a lengthy lecture about how important the Pascere’s helper was. It sounded very much like this, dear reader, and after a bit I will stop because I don’t want to bore you as Malcrux did to them.

“We all know how important it is to be the Pascere’s assistant, who would watch the children on Sundays at Chapel and would have to announce the choir coming in and who would have to do every little thing that the Pascere needs to get done for him because his assistant is a helper, a servant, a High Leader. He would be so important that he would get paid very much and be well respected. The Pascere’s assistant must be good at preparing things at the last second, following instructions— and he must be able to change diapers. He must be able to…”

And here I will stop because I am sure that was very tedious.

At the end of Malcrux’s speech, he went into a smaller room at the side and began to interview elves one by one to see who may be qualified to become the new Pascere’s assistant. Nobody came very close to his standards, and he became highly annoyed. Every interview started to look like this:

 An elf would come in through the door and stand politely by the entrance. Malcrux would hastily motion to a chair, but before the elf could even sit down he would be attacked with questions such as, “Are you a citizen of the Woody Glades?” and “Have you lived here all your life?” and “Are you good with children of all ages, even when they make crumbs and slobber on you?” The poor elf could hardly get a word out, because after only a short pause Malcrux seemed to grow impatient and he would say, “That will be enough from you—just exit over there.”

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“The more I did, the more I wanted to do. You grow ravenous. You run fevers. You know exhilarations. You can’t sleep at night, because your beast-creature ideas want out and turn you in your bed. It is a grand way to live.” ~ Ray Bradbury in his essay on writing, “Drunk, and In Charge of a Bicycle”

In three days, I hope to be calling life grand. Not so much today.

In theory, everything is in place to start a new book. The Christmas things have been packed away, I have a notebook full of scribblings, and the virus that ate my computer has been vanquished, thanks to $175 and a team of experts who are getting to know who I am by the sound of my voice on the phone. Once the ice on the roads melts, the children will head back to school (right?), and I even have a new friend to see me through long days at the kitchen table, a faithful beagle named Oliver (more on him later).

My writing partner and I have set our goals and the date is on the calendar: January 15 will mark the beginning of a little more than a month of madness. Each day will be about writing fast and furious, churning out words and, oh, and trying to make them sing. Not meeting our self-imposed deadline is unthinkable. After all, there’s a dinner outing with our husbands at stake, a toast to our success!

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These are the golden sessions—when our slippers are on, our feet spread out toward the blaze, and our drinks at our elbows; when the whole world and something beyond the world opens itself to our minds as we talk… Life (natural life) has no better gift to give than friendship.~ C.S. Lewis

Yesterday I leapt before I looked and shared a little bit more of Helen—and thus my soul—than is my custom. I went against policy, shall we say.

I was suddenly inspired while slipping on my red suede shoes. There I was, getting dolled up for book club on a day when the roads were messy and school was closed. The phone in the kitchen kept ringing, but never did it cross my mind that our little gathering would be cancelled. I knew better—it would take much more than an ice storm to call off our monthly meeting, which has gone on despite kids with the flu, power outages, broken heaters and all kinds of weather extremes. I wasn’t even deviating from vulnerable footwear for the occasion. This reminded me of something in a book, my book.

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Here is Emma’s next installment of her story of Satrem, Treek and the elves…

Satrem the elf sat up and stretched. He was feeling very contented right now because he had finished the last row of apple trees that needed to be weeded, right where the majority of the apples would fall around the base of the trees. The weeds grew so wild and tall in the Woody Glades that when the fruit fell the weeds seemed to swallow them up so the fruit is hidden and can be stepped on by the harvesters. They used ladders to reach the apples in the trees, but most apples were picked up and collected from the ground.

Satrem walked slowly along the many rows of apple trees and inhaled the crisp autumn air. It was good that he was going to the Autumn Festivities later so he could take a break from his work. His work was not that bad physically, but mentally for him to be squatting on the ground all day was quite difficult.

He walked briskly now, passing various knobbles of Treek pushing up, passing a grape orchard and a colorful garden. Then he came to a wide kind of green plank and pushed at it until a latch sprung up from inside and revealed a gaping dark hole. It was actually more of a tunnel with many lit torches along the sides. He plunged down and grabbed a torch. Satrem smelled the tunnel’s familiar earthy smell and came to a fork with two tunnels branching off. Once again, there were two more green planks concealing the passageways. He walked to the left gate and pushed so that the latch sprung, and he walked on.

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