Lily Writes

Finishing a book is a little like skipping stones. There’s that pause between the splash and the next throw—brief, but necessary. I’ve just sent Oracle off to the proofreaders, and now I have to clear my head of its characters, reluctantly sweep through my notes, and decide what belongs to Hero—and what should be tucked away to incubate for another story down the road.

It feels a lot like cleaning house before the kids go back to school: pulling clothes out of closets, sorting through shoes, bundling up the things still in good shape to pass along. Or like cleaning out the fridge before my son comes home and lectures me about the expired condiments. (“I’m not dead yet, Jim! It’s still good!”)

But there’s satisfaction in the clearing. It makes space for what’s next.

Part of my process is gathering fuel for the new book. Motivational quotes get sorted into my writing journal under the names of my characters—Era, my imperfect but resilient heroine, and Valen (Cere), my monk-like hero haunted by his father’s legacy. Then comes the music. I build playlists for them—their struggles, their backstories, their love story. By the time I finish a book, I’ve usually listened to each track close to a thousand times. Yes, I keep count.

And I look up. Suddenly it’s September. The leaves are turning, the sky is an impossible blue. We went to the Michigan State Fair—practically in my backyard—and yes, they still make a butter cow. We saw rabbits, goats, chicks hatching, sheep shearing, cattle judging. We ate junk food and wandered the arcades (a.k.a. the kiddie casinos). I even debated with a political petitioner—my “innocent white lady” routine at first, then the Socratic method until the holes in his argument showed themselves. My husband, of course, rolled his eyes, muttering something about ice cream as he walked away. He knows me too well.

Clearing my head also means catching up on my Harvard online ethics class, reading other writers, even painting outdoors. Today is my last day of that breathing space—tomorrow, I dive in.

Is it the perfect time? Hardly. We’re heading out on a two-week trip, which means less time than I’d like at the keyboard. But you write when you can. Sometimes at 4 a.m. while my husband sleeps. Sometimes scribbling notes while he wanders off for ice cream. In between, there will be waterfalls, whale watching, maybe a massage or a candlelit dinner to pull me out of my head.

But I know myself. The characters are already buzzing. Hero is waiting. And tomorrow, I begin.