When I stepped into the café this morning, the owner didn’t say hello. He didn’t say good to see you. He didn’t even do the nod-and-smile.

Nope.

He leaned over the counter, looked me dead in the eye, and said:

“Where the hell have you been?”

Word Raccoon, naturally, let out a delighted cackle. (She appreciates a good dramatic entrance.) I mean, you know you’ve been gone too long when your absence gets shouted across a cappuccino machine like a line from a Western.

Obviously, he was teasing. But it is nice to be missed. Especially by the people who serve you caffeine and let you haunt their Wi-Fi like a literary ghost.

I didn’t mean to stay away. Life got tangled. My brain got loud. I let the local cafes share custody of me. But this morning, the air was crisp in that way that makes your story whisper, Now. It’s the kind of day when your characters start tugging on your coat sleeves and saying fall is here, and we’ve been waiting.

So today was all novel, all day.

Maybe my novel has just been waiting for fall. I think novels might be like root vegetables in that they do better with a little cold in the ground. They need that pre-winter clarity. Fall isn’t just for sweaters and soup. It’s for getting serious about your writing.

It’s your mind going back to school. It’s your keyboard saying all the things, some which you wish you could take back, because WR has no filter. Don’t worry, I have duct tape for when it’s called for in public, though don’t tell her that. I won’t let her embarrass either of us, Babe. 

Also today: a man in his 80s, I’d guess, stopped on the sidewalk while I was sitting outside the café. This stranger asked if I owned the place, and when I said no, he stayed a while to tell me stories anyway, which was awesome.

He told me about the houses he’d fixed up in our town and sold before he and his wife moved, and the one he’s working on now in Pierceton, a former stagecoach stop with old beams he’s exposed like secrets. He told me about how the cemetery in that town came to be, the factory there that his wife’s family used to own during the Civil War, and the characters around town he remembered, some I remembered just as vividly. 

He even said rumor has it that there’s a body buried in his front yard from the late 1800’s, though he claims to have never gone looking for it.

“Better not go digging any flower beds,” I said. 

We laughed. 

When I shared a couple of frank opinions when he asked what I thought (I could tell he could handle it), he said “You’re on your way to becoming my favorite person,” which was hilarious. 

I told him he should write his stories down, and he said he already has, I’m happy to say. He asked if he was keeping me, but Word Raccoon was collecting his stories and details for background material. He said I could use any of them I want to. 

It was like running into a human version of the historical society newsletter. So fun! 

Anyway, the writing went well. Word Raccoon spilled some sentences but I cleaned them up. The characters showed up for roll call. A chapter opened its mouth. 

I did more massaging than writing new material today, but I’m staying in the flow, which is important. 

The novel felt alive again, and I’m reminded of what the man I met today said: “I love telling stories.” 

And you know what? So do I.

P.S. I highly recommend the Secret Life of Books Podcast episode I mentioned before on The Woman in White, (told you I’d finish listening to it) as well as the podcast’s interview with Jennifer Egan about the book. That Wilkie was something else!