After a snowstorm drops a foot or more of snow in
our rural neighborhood, I strap on snowshoes and go for a “shoe.” I set out to
break trail and see what I can see in our 14-acre woodlot. Often this trek
leads me to an old logging road. It twists and turns up the side of a steep
hill through stands of fragrant pine, sugar maples, and hardy oaks.
Occasionally I discover white-tailed deer tracks or the footprints of a red fox
in search of an unsuspecting meal. These fellow creatures manage winter as best
they can—just like the rest of us.
Recently I turned 55. It terrified me. Usually I
savor the gift of a birthday and celebrate with chocolate cupcakes and
chocolate ice cream. The day always blooms with possibilities for the upcoming year.
What happened? No other milestone in my life has created such a breach of
confidence. Black balloons and over-the-hill jokes started to look and sound
good. Fifty-five means this is it, folks. Now I’m really a grownup. I don’t have time for nonsense—my own or anyone
else’s. What are my priorities? Discerning them is breaking new trail.
While writing a memoir, the narrative unspooled
smoothly. Journals I’d kept for decades confirmed dates and facts. The
emotional pulse of each scene beat with a steady rhythm. No secrets hid between
the lines. The ending wasn’t a surprise.
I expected the same ease with writing a novel. I’d step
right into the story; it would unfurl like the frozen oak leaves I warm between
my hands while out on the trail. It didn’t work. Characters sounded stiff on
the page, and who were they anyway? What did they eat for breakfast if they ate
breakfast at all? What did they think about in the middle of the night when
they couldn’t sleep? I didn’t know their language or how they dressed. I abandoned
the well-worn path and began bushwhacking a new one. Life requires it.
