Yesterday as I went out to my car thunder rumbled in the distance. Just after steering onto the main road, about fifty yards or so away, what I saw coming toward me didn’t look like a wall of rain but a shiny curtain of silver pebbles falling from an almost sunny sky. Falling in such a number with such force that they bounced and scattered. In that moment between dry road and a flash flood the sky went from almost sunny to navy blue. In that moment, I wanted a good camera in my hand, to keep the inch or two of space separate for just another moment. A clean dry line of just before …

The space closed quick, the sky went black then solid white foam. Within a mile I was no longer a perfectly capable driver in a perfectly safe car, but a first time kayaker on wild white water rapids with great waves splashing and pushing and trying to pull me under. The easy going twenty minute commute became thirty-two minutes of heart-hammering guess work, too blinded by white foam to pull over to the side of the road—was the side of the road still there? Flashers on, I made it to the day job as rumbling thunder closed in all around and a parking lot tidal wave soaked me from the knees down.

Was this in the weather forecast? Of course not. But the worst that happened from all of it was soaked jeans and sandals and a few minutes docked on the time clock. I’ll count the heart-hammering as a day’s worth of cardio.

Yesterday I also started The Witch Elm, by Tana French , and found the DIY MFA podcast , featuring Gabriela Pereira and some good interviews with published writers. I haven’t yet purchased any of the offered goodies, but I have enjoyed insights from some of the visiting authors. Good advice always inspires me to take notes and get started with new vigor on a project. Yesterday’s listen, along with comments from a current reader of my recently completed novel, gave me much needed confirmation that I made good choices.

Those choices were intuitive. The intuition was borne of years of reading, of writing practice, of listening to the characters that live in my feverish writer brain. I really love being a writer, loved it before I realized the thing had indeed happened—it all came together by hard work and tenacity and by some gorgeous magic that I reached out for without knowing what exactly it was. Still don’t know what it is, but I’m comfortable with the mystery.

Now if only that intuitive magic could kick in as I continue to ride the rough waters of querying and writing a decent synopsis. If only. Four of six agents have passed. I hope the other two are reading, getting to know Holly, right now.