Nothing excites (or frightens) a writer more than getting ambushed by a tale. I was slogging away on a project that wasn't giving any ground at all, and to clear my fog, tapped out a page of something totally unrelated- a description of a child on her eighth birthday beset by a secret memory that once, a long time past, she had been able to fly. Then I went back to wrestling with my stubborn story.

Next morning, I retrieved the little girl paragraphs and read over the fragment again. Was it wishful thinking, or did something click with this? I e-mailed it to a longtime mentor and confessor who has suffered all my manuscripts pre-publication. Is this a beginning? I queried. Yes! he sent back. 

So I have been writing about Millicent McTeer for a few days now, At first, I thought she might be a good short story, but I detect an echo that sounds like a space on the other side of her waterfall big enough to contain a novel. Millicent will tell us in her own good time, which is not quite like our time.  Storytime is deeper than clock time. Humans lived in storytime with all the other creatures before our senses were dulled by too many thoughts and words, before we spent more time staring at computer screens than gazing at the sky..

Henry's books.


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