We've reached the sweet spot of summer earlier than usual. I don't know what it is about this season that leads me to believe in possibilities, but I’m feeling it now. Magic seems like it’s on the horizon and creeping nearer.
As the heat arrives, we transition from three vagabonds to homebodies. We walk in the woods twice daily and take naps. I read lighter, more fanciful prose and pen most of my serious writing.
None of us do well in the heat and humidity, so it's a perfect stretch of months to dedicate myself to spending time at my writing desk.
As you've noticed, I've been quiet while settling into a free-swinging rhythm of blissful creativity. A week was needed to surrender to the enchantment. I now find myself in an exciting yet peaceful place while inhaling Emerson's belief in the infinitude of man. Well, this man, at least. This storyteller.
For the last few years, I've held onto two books I've wanted to write. One is my first novel, and the other is my third memoir. I've finally jumped into each, but with two different processes.
The NY Times bestseller Following Atticus and Will's Red Coat were both memoirs, and it's time to follow them up with my quest, which began on my deathbed with my stroke, kidney failure, sepsis, blood clots, and heart failure. It will incorporate the once-unimaginable adventures I've shared with Samwise and Emily since being told I was out of time.
(Never underestimate a stubborn Irishman.)
Close encounters with canyons, deserts, redwoods, saguaros, bison, mountain lions, coyotes, kale, blueberries, hummus, sequoias, badlands, and grizzlies will undoubtedly make appearances. During the past week, putting the stories down on paper has brought me laughter and tears. So I know I’m on the correct path.
The novel (Black Wing Farm) is a unique endeavor in my writing career. The story has lived within me for years; now, it's finally taking shape. I've dedicated an hour each day to its creation, taking a different and lighter path to penning the chapters.
I've told you about my friend Sylvia, Rachael Kleidon and Bryant Etheridge’s precocious 8-year-old, who reads well beyond her years.
I enjoy sending books to Sylvia—boxes of candy are often included, too. As school vacation started this summer, she found the entire Percy Jackson series waiting on her Virginia doorstep. Before that, Tolkien's Hobbit and Stevenson's Treasure Island were among the stories that made their way onto her nightstand.
I've decided to have some fun with our friendship. Each week, I'm sending Sylvia additional pages from my novel. It's not a children's book, but I have faith that she'll be up to the task. Undoubtedly, she'll be thrilled knowing a story is being written for her.
All I am willing to tell you so far is that it takes place on a farm, a mysterious stranger comes to town (don't they always?), and a unique cast of animals is involved. Oh, and there's a witch, and maybe a bear.
In post-pandemic America, I have mourned how so many of our quaint Norman Rockwell places have been forced into something from the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog.
I'm finally heeding the oft-mentioned advice to write the story I want to read. But I'm taking it a step further by creating a town, a place like those we'll never see again—a place I wish to live in. The village is as much a character as the quirky people and the assorted beasts.
Why now? Two reasons.
Although I've lived longer than expected, time's passing, and I'm not getting any younger. I desire to live in a way so there aren't many regrets when I ultimately do accept a last dance with the Woman in Black.
The second reason was born during our recent coddiwomple and tour of authors' graves. Finding out more about the lives of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Mark Twain, Mary Oliver, Thomas Merton, Willa Cather, Jack London, Henry Miller, and company inspired me more than I was prepared to be.
(I've much more to share with you about our travels, and I promise to return to my usual pace now that I'm where I need to be.)
Each of the cemetery visits had me vibrating from within. It was as if the dead storytellers whispered the exact same message over the four and a half months of our odyssey, "What are you waiting for?"
It was the right question.
I'm excited to answer their call. It has me feeling like a kid again.
This is the opening to Black Wing Farm. Sylvia will read it and a handful of more pages when she opens my most recent letter.
“She’s a witch,” proclaimed Katherine Holt.
“Definitely a witch, if ever I’ve seen one,” added Prudence Fish.
From her seat next to the potbelly stove, Bertie Toomey said, “And since when have you ever seen a witch, Prudence Fish?”
Meanwhile, a mile away from their table in the country store, on a tussock of yellow grass waiting for spring to arrive, the accused witch in question was sitting with a three-legged cow in a copse of birch trees. Above them, a raven kept watch. In the bird’s keen eyes, he swears he sees something coming. Soon, all their lives will change.
“It’s unnatural, and you know it,” said Prudence. She squeezed the crucifix dangling under her pointed chin.
Unlike the other two gossips, Bertie knew a thing or two about witches. And she loved that Barnstable’s witch (if she was one), the first they’d had in town in two and a half centuries, was a precocious 9-year-old who did not give a hoot what anyone thought of her.