It’s only been a month or so since I finished writing The Wind from Heaven, Book No. 13 in my Bell Mountain series, and already I’m champing at the bit to write another. This is going nowhere, yet: I’ve got the rest of the fall and all the winter before I can start again.
I have to wait for the Lord to give me the germ of the next book. Maybe He’ll give me a dream about it. Or a new character, demanding to be born.
I’m hungry to find out what happens next. What about those ships from far across the sea? Ebed, the boy spy trained by Gallgoid, has been taken aboard one of those ships. What are they doing here? What’s their mission? And will the new regime in Obann City prove to be any better than the old one? And will Lord Chutt, the usurper, live long enough to stand trial for his various misdeeds? How will that turn out?
I just don’t know. Not yet.
Well, one thing I can do is re-read the whole series, all 13 books–not an onerous task. The other thing I have to do is wait. That’s the hard part. It always is.
It’s written, it’s typed and sent to the editor, and now the cold weather closes in and if I hadn’t finished by now, I’d be out of luck: yes, The Wind from Heaven is all done. And I’ve also written the cover blurb for His Mercy Endureth Forever, and Kirk has come up with dynamite cover artwork for it–
Now what do I do?
Yeesh! No more Bell Mountain, no more Jack and Ellayne and Martis, no more Gallgoid hatching plots in Obann City–what am I supposed to do with myself for the next six months? Just cover nooze?
Thing is, I work on a book so intently–especially when the weather won’t play ball and I’ve got to get it done in four and a half months instead of six–that to finally finish it leaves me gasping for breath. And a sense of loss!
I wonder what Violet Crepuscular would do.
Well, it’s black walnut season again, and these heavy, baseball-sized projectiles are falling from the tree in our yard. When you hear one hit the roof of a parked car, you know it’s gonna hurt if one hits you.
Most writers probably don’t have to worry about getting pelted by walnuts. But I’m outside, trying to finish off the last chapter set of The Wind From Heaven, and there are walnuts falling all around me.
Why don’t I just write indoors? Nuisance phone calls are only one of many distractions. Besides, over the years, I’ve come to need the outdoors as my studio. Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to imagine imaginary people in imaginary places and write them up in such a way that readers can believe they’re real. I need the birds, the bees, the butterflies, the sky, the grass, and the trees. When I write my fiction, I’ve just got to be outdoors.
Risk of falling walnuts notwithstanding.
Anyway, I’ve got to finish the book before the cold weather sets in, and I’m plugging away at it every day I can. May the Lord make my work fruitful in His service–and protect me from getting beaned while I do it.