Lily Writes

Snowed in at a nearly empty 1830s inn, with wind howling off Cayuga Lake… and somehow I’m writing a Christmas romance. Winter, myth, and inspiration collide.

Okay… wasn’t expecting the snowstorm that hit last night. An absolute doozy.

I’m in upstate New York for a couple of weeks, and while Ithaca got a surprise hit, Michigan took the real beating. The Upper Peninsula saw nearly 40 inches of snow in a single day.

Winter, apparently, is not done with us.

At this point it feels less like a season and more like a squatter.

Go home, Winter. You’re drunk.

As a Michigander, I’m used to Persephone’s reluctant dance to leave Hades.  We’ve all been there— in love, trying to balance duty with desire. 

For Persephone it shows up as:

Early Spring.
False Spring.
Second Chance Spring.

Persephone’s love story is a dance of hesitation—wanting both worlds, yet able to land in only one.

Looking out the window at the ice-laden branches and snowdrifts, it’s clear Hades doesn’t want to let her go.

The older I get, the more I understand Persephone and Hades’ myth as a fated love—layered with longing, power, and inevitability.

Winter clings. Spring resists. And we—caught in between—watch it all unfold.

The Inn (And Its… Energy)

We’re staying in a bed and breakfast built in 1830.

High ceilings. Original woodwork. Steam heat that hisses and clanks like it’s telling secrets. Three flights of stairs. No elevator.

“It’s an old inn,” the receptionist apologized.

I laughed. That’s exactly why I booked it.

What I didn’t expect? We’d be the only guests.

During the week, the place is completely empty. Four stories of haunted spirits. Ours is the only room with a light on.

Over the weekend a couple of other travelers (from Germany) appeared at breakfast like reassuring proof that we haven’t slipped into a ghost story.

During the week, it’s just us.

And the wind. Angry gusts come screaming off Cayuga Lake, rattling the windows. Windows with antique glazing. The breeze is so strong through the cracks in the bathroom windowsill that it can blow out a candle.

The brick walls are 15” thick but it still gets chilly. The steam heating knocks. The floors creak in long, thoughtful pauses. Once the steam heat kicks in, though, it gets nice and toasty.

And then there’s the history. The place is called Rogues Harbor Inn. And it has a colorful history of bootleggers and politicians.

This inn once hosted dignitaries like Harriet Tubman and it’s rumored that the Inn was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Evidence in the basement suggests that this is a true story.  There’s something… extraordinary about standing in spaces where Harriet once stood.  To touch bricks where men, women, and children sought refuge on their way to Canada, determined to find freedom.

Other tales include a story about a 1900 renovation that found stacks of counterfeit cash in the walls.  The dyes to make the bills were located in another nearby building.  Rogues indeed!

Which somehow makes it feel both grounding and… more alive. Like the walls remember things. Important things.

Still.

Note to self: do not read Stephen King in a mostly empty, nearly two-century-old inn.

Just… don’t.

Worth It for the Breakfast Alone

The breakfasts are phenomenal.

So yes, I will happily haul my suitcase up three flights of stairs like a determined Victorian heroine in exchange for fresh coffee, blueberry pancakes, fresh fruit and croissants or cornbread straight from the oven.

My partner doesn’t complain when I book places like this. He knows I love places with texture, history, and personality.

Most hotels are too clean. Too quiet. Too forgettable.

Great for sleep.

Not great for inspiration.

Writing Update (Or: Christmas in March)

With the mood set—history, ambiance, snow—I spend the mornings writing. (Afternoons are for exploring.)

I’m about three-quarters of the way through my current draft, with two other books out with my proofreaders—who double as my beta readers. I’m equal parts excited and nervous to hear what they think.

The book I’m deep into right now? Love Line (think palm reading but it’s also an allusion to the hero: Rockstar Tavish Dean.)

Some readers first met Tavish in the Beaumont series. Well he’s back. And he’s been searching for Charlotte Sweet for five years.

She was once a background character, styling and dressing the band. Easy to overlook.

Not to him.

When he spots her in the background of a social media post—thanks to Marissa Manetsch—he doesn’t hesitate. He gets on a plane immediately.

Two days before Christmas, he walks into her resale shop.

And there she is.

Charlotte.

The woman he’s loved since he first met her. Oh yeah, he fell first.  And hard.

She disappeared years ago without a word.

And she is not happy to see him.

Which is new for him. Rockstars aren’t used to rejection.

No matter.  He’ll fix things.  Whatever happened to cause her to run away—he’ll fix it.

His unwavering belief that they are destined to be together.  Yeah… very Hades.

Accidental Christmas Magic

This wasn’t supposed to be a Christmas story.

But somewhere along the way, it became one.

And when the snowstorm rolled through Ithaca? Just Hades, helping me out with this one.

When I write, I disappear into the story. The real world fades out.

The snow, the ice, the cold?

Not inconvenient.

Just atmosphere.

Perfect, accidental, cinematic atmosphere.