Ah, the fall! Boo, the falling! (And other notes from writer’s life)

Here it is already—fall. 

Going into September and October is always a very nostalgic time for me. I was born in September, and so were my father and my only child. For these reasons alone, it is well on the way to being my favourite month, followed by any month where pumpkin pie can be expected: October in Canada, November in the United States. But winter and I have yet to fully make peace. I spent much of my childhood in Mexico and Arizona, and even the 55 years I have been in British Columbia since I returned here after university have still not convinced me that being cold is very useful in the overall scheme of things.

But the fall is joyful. Between the heat of the summer and the grey expanse of winter, it is cool but still sunny, and somehow full of promise. I become nostalgic. I take out sepia pictures of my parents from long before I knew them and dream about what their lives must have been like. So many of my stories are inspired by that imagined and unknown period of my parents’ lives.

But I also find the baby pictures of me with them, and I feel a vague sense of unease. I’m not entirelysure that I met their expectations of what a child should be. When I was very young, before we moved away from BC to Mexico, my athletic parents used to take me skiing with them at a place called White Mountain. They’d button me into snow attire and strap adorable little skis to my feet. Where other children laughed delightedly at shooting uncontrollably down a hill—my son was thrilled when I did this to him—I stood and cried loudly, and would not stop until they removed the skis. Every single time. You can see in the photo below that I am already extremely suspicious of their intentions; they must already have tried to make me ski once and are pretending we are just going for a snowy walk … but will sneak skis onto me before I can get away. They tried the same thing with horses (they were both British and from horsey families). I’m afraid the outcome was very much the same. I think horses are magnificent, really. I can see that clearly without having to climb on one. And so, by judicious avoidance of skis and horses, I have survived long enough to write the Lane Winslow series!

And what does my writing life look like at this time of year? I won’t lie. It can be terribly confusing. Here’s what is actually happening at this moment: I am already writing a book for the spring of 2028. It’s at a delicate stage; more than one third of the way through. I’m still pretty confident about books at that stage, but the tiny crows of doubt are beginning to flutter around my head. By the halfway mark, crippling insecurity will have me in its talons. I am convinced the book makes no sense, no one will like it, the publisher will say, “We can’t publish this sort of drivel!” and my readers will toss it aside partially read and say sadly, “Oh, dear … ” And I will slink back to my desk in shame to consider a career in knitting. It happens with every book.

My spring of 2027 book (The Woeful Wren) is undergoing its many edits and revisions, and so any minute it will come bouncing back with requests for more rewrites and revisions. I will have to stop working on the new book, and focus on the Wren, which I finished half a year ago, so that I now have trouble remembering what it’s all about. When I complete the latest set of revisions I will send it back, and return to the 2028 book, which of course, I won’t recognize at all. At the same time, I am still doing the touring, festivals, and many events representing my current book, A False and Fatal Claim. It’s like juggling wildcats.

But I have to say, through all this muddle, I have loved receiving your emails! Getting your feedback about the books keeps the joyful engine of creativity working, and I am so grateful to everyone who has taken the time to send me a note with praise, or dismay, or the wonderful stories of your own families. 

Have a very happy fall. And don’t forget, coming your way when we’ve all survived the winter: A Woeful Wren!