Where my honey took me on 9/11 so I could write.
I’m counting the hours now, along with the pages! I have two days to get this book finished and pages and pages to go. If you’ve been following me on facebook or twitter you know that pages have been flowing every single day. This is the writer’s life. The work presents itself when is is ready. Or when I am ready to let it take over, maybe.
Cal’s Story, or Forensic Book One, as we are calling this thing right now, is holding me captive. Willingly captive. I don’t want the book to end. Which could possibly be why the pages just keep flowing. I could have refused to write some scenes, to keep it from getting too deep, or too long, but I chose not to. The scenes were there and I took the time to write them. The book will come in over page count. And…oh well. I love Cal and Morgan. They’re different, flawed, and yet I can’t leave them.
It’s strange that when I’m living with these people, you all are out there living lives and other stories. And when you’re living with them, I’m off to other adventures with other people. I can tell you this, I envy you your time with these people next summer! I don’t want to leave their world.
I did come up for air on 9/11. The whole country mourned that day, and while I hurt so desperately for our country, my memories of the horror are mingled with feelings of awe in the way our people drew together. 9/11 is my daughter’s birthday. And on Sunday, I thought about her all day. We celebrated her. We had birthday cake. And we talked about the day she was born – all the specifics. I remember them so clearly.
The 9/11 day that the world remembers, the day tragedy hit our country, my daughter turned sixteen. I was out in line skating when the planes hit. I skated every single morning, by myself, for an hour. It was regular. Normal. And when I came in my just turning sixteen year old was waiting and frantic. I thought, when she first told me what had happened, that she was being a dramatic teenager. I thought my job was to calm her down, find out what had really happened and then reassure her. Instead, I was more horrified than she was. We’d had plans to go out to eat that night at a very nice restaurant. My mother was meeting us there. We didn’t know if we should go or not, but eventually decided that we would do so. And I’m so glad we did. I’ve never experienced anything like that meal. And I’ve never forgotten it, either. In a restaurant where usually people speak quietly amongst themselves, having private meetings and conversations, everyone, instead, talked to everyone. We all needed the comfort of being together. We all drew together and became one – a body of Americans who cared about our country, about each other, and about everyone who was suffering so horribly that day. We were frightened, but grateful to be alive.
Okay, Okay! Sammie, Morgan’s ten year old son, is calling me. He’s up and wants to get on with it. He’s making the junior high basketball team today and you know how kids are. Happy Week everyone!
P.S. The winner of last week’s Christmas Item is Karen C! Please send your snail mail address to staff@tarataylorquinn.com to collect your prize!