Lily Writes

I’m watching the birds outside my window this morning.

It’s overcast. Hot and muggy. Michigan in August. Thunderstorms are supposed to roll through later this afternoon, and the sky already looks like it’s considering it.

A couple of crows cruise through the neighborhood. And immediately, I think of my mother. Mom used to feed her crows. They knew her. They came looking for her. And sometimes they brought her gifts. Little treasures left behind in exchange for whatever treats she’d put out for them.

That makes me smile.

My father had a crow too.

My Dad and Poe

When Dad was a boy, he made friends with a crow. He named him Poe. Naturally.

Dad grew up poor. Partly because his parents were hardscrabble farmers and partly because my grandparents were deeply religious people who believed that if they had something and someone else didn’t, they should give to help them out.

So they did.

Dad was essentially an only child. He’d had a sister, but she died tragically when she was only four. There were no other siblings.

I think about him sometimes as that little boy. Growing up without much money. Without brothers or sisters to run around with. Escaping into books and making friends with a crow named Poe. It sounds almost mythological.

Except it’s true.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always believed there’s magic around us. Not the lightning-bolt, wand-waving kind. Common magic. Special magic. Timeless magic. The kind we walk past every day if we aren’t paying attention.

Yes. I’m feeling a little philosophical this morning.

Something Is Changing

Maybe it’s August. There’s always something anticipatory about this time of year. Summer isn’t finished. Not even close. It’s hot and sticky outside, and thunderstorms are building.

But fall is out there.

Waiting.

The farmers market is overflowing with the ripening harvest. Tomatoes. Corn. Peaches. Flowers. Everything feels abundant. The cider mill is getting ready to open. Soon there will be apples and cider and donuts and that first morning when I walk outside and realize the air feels different.

A season turning.

I can feel it coming.

I had planned to clean the garage today in preparation for having some junk hauled away. Very productive. Very responsible.

But it’s going to rain.

So instead, I’m sitting here watching the crows and realizing something else.

I like shiny things too.

Books.

Paintings.

Stories.

Interesting people.

Beautiful places.

Little bits and pieces I pick up and carry home because something about them catches my attention.

Apparently, I’m a crow.

And sometimes…

Sometimes I just want to hang out with the other crows instead of getting any actual work done.

The garage can wait.

Writing Update

Love Books is back from my proofreaders.

I’m working through their edits now and doing some additional polishing, including updating the epilogue based on their feedback. Margo and Hull are almost ready.

Love Nut? Ali and Miles are currently stalled at Chapter Seven. It happens.

Taking several weeks off to travel interrupted the creative flow more than I expected. I know the story. I know the characters. I know where they’re going.

But right now, they aren’t talking.

They will.

I’ve learned not to panic about that anymore. Stories have seasons too. Sometimes they pour out of me so quickly my fingers can barely keep up. Sometimes they need to sit quietly for a while. So I’m letting Ali and Miles sit.

For now.

In the meantime, I’ve been doing some decidedly less glamorous author work—maintenance on my website, auditing my series pages, cleaning up categories, and improving keywords.

Necessary work.

Not exactly the kind that makes my heart zing.

Because while I’m doing all of that, something else is happening in the back of my mind.

There are voices.

Old voices.

Vanguardian voices.

Apparently, three weeks in the Pacific Northwest did something to me.

Maybe it was the mountains.

The enormous trees.

Cannon Beach.

The fog.

The ocean.

Crater Lake.

Or those stretches where we had no cell service and the modern world simply disappeared.

Whatever it was, it woke something up.

I’ve spent most of this year happily living in Pinkerton Falls, but lately my imagination keeps wandering somewhere darker. Stranger. More dangerous.

More magical.

I’m playing with characters and plots for Hades’ Hounds of Hell. And they’re getting louder. It may be time. Maybe creativity is a little like those crows outside my window. You can’t always tell it where to go.

You can leave out something interesting.

Make space for it.

Pay attention.

And wait.

Eventually, if you’re lucky, it brings you something shiny.

Today, I think I’ll sit here a little longer and see what they bring me.

The garage can definitely wait.