It’s frigid again today—blue sky sunny sort of frigid. The coldest winter days are always the sunniest. The children are off school for the third time this month; tomorrow will mark the fourth. Thankfully, some neighbors asked them to play, so they get rid of some cabin fever and I get to write.
When I was a girl, I begged my parents to move us to a farm. (My son does the same to me now; can this really be genetic?) I would clip bits from the real estate section of the newspaper advertising farms in Wisconsin for sale and present my case to them. It never worked and, alas, we stayed in our suburban home my entire childhood.
I now live in that same suburb, in a 1925 farmhouse (of course). There are four original barns left in this entire sprawling suburb, and I’m lucky enough to be able to see one of them, our neighbor’s, from the window next to my writing desk:
Not bad, right?
Looking at this barn seems to stimulate all the thoughts swirling in my head, all the stories. Every morning, I open my blinds and I am happy to see the barn standing there, as it has for over one hundred years.
The anxious anticipation of releasing a book in a few months is becoming stronger. This barn keeps the anxiety at bay and reminds me that there are many stories to tell and I will continue telling them. One book is one book. There are others to come.
My publisher emailed me the other day with my first Goodreads review, pre-release (my book comes out April 22). I’m happy in a barn sort of way to share it with you here. I don’t know this person, but I love her for making my first review ever as an author a good one: