Does this happen to you?

I open a new book and begin to read. As the storyline begins to take shape in my mind, the house where the characters reside transforms into my childhood home. No matter the book, I subconsciously manifest the rooms of the blue colonial where I lived until I was seven; the house at 2424 Renny Court, Marietta, Georgia becomes the setting of the story.

Unless the author’s details take me to some green gabled home or quaint seaside cottage, my mind automatically wanders to the cul-de-sac where my sisters and I roller skated and formed spontaneous parades with the neighborhood kids. I see the house with its tall white columns, brick front steps, the flowering dogwood tree. I picture stepping through the front door where the stairs go down to a rec room, the dark brown carpet littered with toys, or up to a cozy family room where we watched Scooby Doo on our new color TV. The living room, with its pink velvety armchairs, streams with sunlight, and I think of the Christmas my stuffed gorilla was waiting there under the tree. I envision the kitchen with its mushroom wallpaper and a bone white table, and I remember my grandfather introducing me to yellow mustard, the color of the upholstered chairs. To the left of the stairs is the hallway that leads to our bedrooms — the one I shared with my sister, with twin beds and handmade green floral curtains; my twin sisters’ room, which I can barely recollect; my parents’ room, where we found the adoption dolls my mother made peeking from under the covers.

In the backyard is the elaborate wooden playset my father built, complete with balance beam, monkey bars, swings, and a slide. An overgrown circle of trees on the border of the yard forms a secret hideout beneath its needles. A little hill on the back edge of the yard is just right for sledding the few times it snows. Up beyond the hill is the high school where we once flew in a hot air balloon tethered to a truck and from which the sound of marching band drums rolled into my dreams.

It is the house where my imagination was born from the magical stories conceived by my parents and my creativity sprouted from playing make-believe with my sisters. My love of books grew as I sat on the couch, resting my cheek on my mother’s shoulder and listening to her read. It is the place where my first friendships were formed and my earliest memories are held.

Now, those memories, once vivid and rich, are vague and sparse, but they are conjured in the stories I read — and reincarnated in the novel I write. When my protagonist remembers learning to ride her bike, I envision the street where my father held the back of my yellow banana seat as I pedaled without training wheels. When she comes home soaked with rain, her mother meets her in the driveway where our beige station wagon was parked. When she sits in the kitchen talking over a problem with her parents, she stares at the same walls (minus the wallpaper) that were splattered with pie one memorable night. When her mother pulls open her drapes to wake her, the drapes are yellow, but the bedroom is the same.

Where some of my fondest childhood memories were made, my stories naturally take root and intertwine with those recollections of the past. As I write, I leave some details to the reader’s imagination, so you may build, from your own memories and experiences, the house where the story lives.

As a kid, I hated yard work, the thought of it anyway. Raking all the leaves in the yard was impossible. Pulling weeds: infinite. Gardening? No, thanks! It wasn’t so much the work itself; it was the never-endingness of outdoor chores. Usually, when my parents and sisters went out to work in the yard, I remained indoors. I wanted to avoid the daunting yard work and much preferred to stay in the house and wash dishes; it was a finite job.

Today, I proudly announce that I don’t hate yard work anymore! Actually, it’s been for some time now — since I’ve had a yard really — that I’ve no longer minded the tasks of raking, pulling weeds, gardening. Honestly, I rather enjoy them. I just get down and start working, one weed at a time. And I find it’s when I do some of my best thinking.

Gardening, I’ve noticed, is a lot like writing a novel. Each section of our yard — the perennial gardens, the backyard, the garden near the big rock that collects windblown leaves, the cracks between the bricks of the walkway — requires attention, like the elements required in writing a book.

I often start with the perennial gardens near the driveway. They give the best impression; they’re the first things you might notice if you happen to drop by. And they make me happy, knowing I’ve created something beautiful in my yard. I spend time planting new hostas, digging up irises to find a better spot for them, moving creeping phlox to fill in empty spaces, and pulling up any early spring weeds that have started poking through. And then I let the plants do their magic. The perennial gardens are the story of my novel, the journey my character takes, the first thing you might notice when you begin to read.

The rest of it is the real hard work — raking leaves, pulling overgrown weeds that grow beneath the shadows of our house, cutting down the saplings that crowd near the garden. This is the stuff you don’t see — like contemplating a new scene, reworking a section of dialogue, scrawling inspirations in the middle of the night, jotting down notes in the early morning. It’s the dirty work that makes me feel I’ve accomplished something, even if it goes unnoticed in the end.

But, it’s never really done. There are still parts to finish and sections left to do. Just when I take a day off or two, it seems the weeds start sprouting up anew. It’s time to go back to the areas already cared for and do it all over again. That’s the hardest part of yardwork and the most important part of writing — going back to make it better. It’s cutting words that don’t work, pulling out sentences I don’t like, transplanting scenes that don’t fit anymore, pruning text that is too full. And that can be the most overwhelming part. But it’s worth it. In the end, there’s something even more beautiful to show for it.

When a new blossom appears (which I usually forget I planted in the first place), it makes my day. When I reread something I’ve written, I’m often suprised that I produced something beautiful. It makes me proud to know that I planted it there, I made it grow, and it’s a reflection of my efforts.

I certainly don’t have a “green thumb,” which is why I stick to perennials. It’s easy to pretend I know what I’m doing. I’m faking it. It’s the same with writing — I’m making it up as I go along, but that’s how it’s supposed to be. And that’s the beauty of it!

I decided to start carrying a tiny notebook and pen in the zippered pouch I wear to go walking. I wanted it in case I have a sudden inspiration and feel the need to write something down. It’s what writers do, so I’ve heard, and I thought I’d give it a try. I do often have thoughts I want to remember when I’m out walking my dog, so I figured it’d be good to be prepared. 

Cash is fairly well-trained on his remote collar now, so when we came to a trail through woods, I let him free from his leash to chase squirrels. My mind began wandering to the novel I’ve been writing, and I had an idea I wanted to record in my handy-dandy notebook. I dug my pen and notebook out of the pouch (no, it’s not a fanny pack) and wrote down my little bit of inspiration. Lost in my task, I didn’t notice that a runner and her dog were quickly approaching us on the trail. Cash spotted them before I did. I finished my notes and looked up to see them coming toward us. I called Cash. He stopped, looked at me, and with “But there’s a dog” urgency continued toward them. I had Cash’s leash in my right hand, and my phone (which I’d taken out to free the notebook), the pen, the notebook, and a bag of poop were in my left. The collar remote was still zippered in the pouch, which would have taken two hands to pry free. Helpless, I called Cash again. Had I called to him sooner, he would have listened, or had I been holding the remote, I could have beeped him to remind him of his command. But, it was too late. The runner and dog, who was properly leashed, kept coming and Cash closed the gap. Fortunately, it was without incident. They touched noses, Cash skittered excitedly, and they moved along. I apologized and then looked down at the things in my hands. I laughed at how foolish and irresponsible I must have looked. Instead of controlling my dog, I’d just stood there, hands full, (ok) fanny pack hanging open, helplessly calling him to “come.” And I couldn’t have been more pleased with myself.

This was what I’d always imagined (well, it wasn’t quite as romantic as I’d envisioned) a writer’s life to be. Ever since I first read Harriet the Spy, and maybe before, I dreamed of being a writer. I’d carry a notebook and fill it with inspiration; I’d feel a constant need to write things down. Because I’m a writer.

Well, it hasn’t always been that way. Life takes us in many new directions. I had to bring myself to this point. Living through a pandemic changes things. It allowed me to take stock of my time. It made me say to myself, “It’s now or never.” I began working on a novel I first started eleven years ago. I reinstated in the writing course I had put on hold as well. I found a space in my house to devote to my writing, and I allow myself the time each day to go to the rocking chair in my basement to just sit and write. That’s how inspiration begins. And I carry my little notebook with me along the way.