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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So I summoned up some courage yesterday, whispering under my breath that I am Ed’s daughter as I dialed the number of one of the most prestigious literary agencies in the country.

They’ve had Helen for a while now, and in my world of inner drama I’ve made their yea or nay into a matter of life and death. I was told they receive hundreds of submissions and the fact that mine was pulled from the pile and already reviewed by several of their readers is a “good sign.” They’ve written a report (what does it say?) and the Big Agent, the one who (again the drama) holds my future in his hands, will decide whether or not I’m client-worthy. I’ll know in a few weeks.

The Spouse, ever encouraging, reminds me that my girl keeps getting a look, and that’s a good thing. But what good are all these close-but-no-cigar situations? Those and four bucks will get me a latte.

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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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“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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“Here at the magic hour
Time and eternity
Mingle a moment in chorus
Here at the magic hour
Bright is the mystery
Plain is the beauty before us
Could this beauty be for us?”
~ from “The Magic Hour” by Andrew Peterson and Don Chaffer

Dipping her toes into the water, Lanier, wearing huge movie star sunglasses to match her Grace Kelly-style bathing suit, sipped her frozen coffee concoction and wondered out loud if 18^th century Gothic novelist Ann Radcliff had ever been discussed in a poolside setting.

“Maybe not since the 1930s,” said Jenijoy, who had orchestrated the afternoon at a friend’s pool for our little book club.

“I can’t even see Laura and Lanier over there because of Rachel’s hat!” interjected Louise. The hat, a big white floppy affair, made Rachel look like a “moonflower,” Lanier said.

But it wasn’t Rachel’s fault—Jenijoy is the one who supplied the sun hats. And fluffy white beach towels. And 1960s loungey type music and frozen grapefruit aperitifs and a table set with vintage linens and glassware. And no afternoon at the pool is complete without giant pink caladium leaves and ferns floating elegantly in the water.

We are a quirky assemblage of six that sets out to make pimento cheese sandwiches and 95 degree heat somewhat glamorous. We try, anyways.

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