It’s been awhile since I’ve written about writing, and here’s why: I am in the process of reworking my book into a whole new book, and it’s difficult and time-consuming and filled with lots of little things that make me go “grr,” but, quite honestly, I love it at the same time.

penI was a creative writing major at Carlow, and most of the things I wrote while I was there were nonfiction. I wrote about my parents’ divorce, my mother’s remarriage, my grandfather’s heart attack … all true things. I wrote the odd short fiction or poem if I had to, but mostly I was interested in the lives that were swirling all around me.

So, after I graduated from college, I had the idea to write a novel. I worked on it for several months, but I never really got into it. A few weeks ago, I realized that was because it wasn’t very interesting to me. And if it wasn’t interesting to me, why the hell would it be interesting to my readers? I decided to keep the idea for the book in my files, in case I returned to it later. (A good writer never throws anything away. This has turned me into a packrat, much to Frank’s chagrin.)

For a few weeks, I felt like I was just drifting. I didn’t have my book to occupy my thoughts while I was doing the mindless parts of my job, and I wasn’t really working toward anything.

That’s all changed. I realized about a week ago, on a walk through Schenley Park with my best friend, Andi, that the seasons were changing and I lamented to Andi that autumn and winter are my favorite times of year to write. It’s the perfect time to put on warm comfy clothes, brew a cup of tea, and sit at your desk writing while the cats keep your feet warm. (Yes, our cats actually do this.)

And Andi replied, “So write about that. Write about the freshness that is fall for you. People might think you’re crazy, because I associate these seasons with death and decay, but, hey, whatever works for you.”

She was right. I had gotten out of the habit of writing, and this was the perfect time to get back into it. So I started up again. I jotted down snippets of people’s conversations I overheard on the subway and went home to turn them into full-fledged scenes. I watched mothers bundling their children in sweaters and jackets at the playground and wrote about those characters, their secrets, their wishes, their dreams. I noticed a tree covered with vibrantly red leaves and began thinking about beauty and death, and how they can often be intertwined.

And from all of those ideas, I came up with a new premise for a book, when I wasn’t even thinking about writing a book at all. I’m excited about it, and I’m working on it, and I hope it turns out to be what I think it can be. It’s so funny how things really get started when you just make the conscious decision to let go, isn’t it?