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We came home after church on Easter and I went to a lovely ladies’ tea party outside Cloverdale.  Rick and Travis stayed home to enjoy one another company’s, and I offered no apologies for abandoning them on this special celebration day.   My friend Loretta has tea parties that would make Kate Middleton plead to come. 

When I came home, Rick was sitting somberly at the kitchen counter.  “Marion died last night.”  My first reaction was “What?!”  We had been half-expecting the news, but still it was a shock to our hearts.  We’ve both known this lovely lady since childhood. She was my junior high Sunday school teacher.  (I called her Mrs. Bonde back then.)  Rick and went to swim parties at her house (Her son, David, was best man at our wedding and Godfather to our three children).  We were going to her ninety-fifth birthday celebration a few weeks ago, but she fell and broke her pelvis and ended up in the hospital...

I’m a fair weather gardener, which means I only work in the garden on warm, clear days – like today.  I thought I could just slip my little shovel into the soft soil, lift, plop in a bulb and voila, we’ll have summer gladiolas! 

The ground was hard as a rock.  I got my pick.  Sarge (our year old, 100+ pounds of exuberant German Shepherd) was on my heels.  “What’re we doing? Huh? Huh?  I wanna play. Look!  I’ve got a ball! Throw the ball!  Throw the ball!”  Ignoring him, I swung the pick and buried the pointed end deep into the ground.  Sarge jumped three feet in the air and ran.  He wisely remained at a safe distance until I had “prepared the soil”. 

Back he came, tennis ball in his mouth.  “Time to play! Time to play!!”  He danced around me, scattering the bulbs I was trying to plant.  It was hot by this time, or rather I was hot after my labor.  Rather than make the neat rows I intended...

I’m scrapping my proposal and prologue today. Shredding it is a better idea.  I’ve been thinking/working over a story idea for months!  I dream about this “thing”, whatever it is.  It’s been like living in a rabbit warren and the rabbits keep producing more rabbits.  In this case, ideas are reproducing ideas.  I’m living in a maze of them and I’ve been having trouble making sense of where all this is going and why it’s happening.  

Is it any wonder then when Rick read my book proposal and prologue he could only say: “It will be very interesting to see how you pull this off.”  Uh oh!  And then my agent and her associate called and gently broke the news:  “We’ve been scratching our heads… we didn’t get it…”  Not a surprise.  How do you explain something you can’t quite grasp?  As to form?  It was (sort of) a paranormal, sci-fi, fantastical allegorical mess. 

But as they talked, my head was buzzing...

I am told by those close to me that I always go through the same process when I’m writing a new book.  It always starts with doubt and fear.  Whatever made me think I could write anything, let alone a novel?  I know I’m not alone in this.  Other writer friends feel the same way.  A book?  How is it possible to write an entire book?  Impossible!  In defense, I have to think of writing in terms of one page at a time.  When starting, it more about one word, one sentence at a time.  It takes time to get back into the flow of writing.  It’s like someone who’s gone to the gym every day and worked out for one hour, then takes a break for six months.  A brain goes flabby as quickly as a body, and it takes hard work to get it “back in shape”. 

Some mistakenly think writing is all about inspiration.  It’s mostly about hard work.  Getting up early, studying, praying, shower, dress etc as though going to a “real...