Yesterday I had the opportunity to decipher a letter written by one of my husband’s ancestors who was in California–a gold rush immigrant–to another family member. My husband remembered listening to his grandfather read the letter to him when he was a kid. The letter was blunt and to the point: “I regrett to write to you at this late date of the death of your father…”

The letter was written five years after the death of said father, and goes on to say that the father had been in debt and the letter writer needed money to clear the debts. It is a glimpse into writing style, family dynamics, and general life in the American west in 1887.

As I transcribed the letter, which has been nearly destroyed with age, all I could think of was what a gift it was. What an incredible source of writing material, and a beautiful starting point for a story.

After I read the transcribed letter aloud, my husband began to laugh. He asked to see my latest book. That story begins with a letter telling of the death of the main character’s father…

The letter had been the prompt for the story, and was written by my husband. Until he heard the historical letter read out, he hadn’t realised what had inspired his story prompt, but the tone and pacing were almost identical.

I’ve squirreled away the transcription, and expect I will bring it out again for inspiration some day. It makes me wonder what scraps of my own life might survive the years and inspire others long after I’m gone.

With The Dragon Slayer’s Son published and the next novel in the editing stage, I’m excited to begin work on The Dragon Slayer’s Son‘s sequel.

A new project is all about possibilities. It’s like the beginning of a long hike; I’m prepared, fresh and ready to go. The entire landscape is spread out before me. I can see my destination, way over there, miles away.

At the beginning of a project, I don’t worry about all the treacherous downhills and uphill slogging I’m going to have to do to get to the end. I just see the spectacular scenery.

I can see in detail the first part of my task, and the way seems clear, the path well-marked. I wave my hand in the direction of my ending and say, “Then I’ll go that way.”

It’s beautiful and optimistic. I know it will end.

After thirty thousand words, I’ll suddenly find myself at the edge of a cliff, with no way down to the bottom because I’ve forgotten to pack a rope. After forty thousand words, I’ll realise I should have taken a different path altogether, because the one I’ve chosen has veered the wrong way. At sixty thousand words, I’ll see my goal within reach, but there will be nothing but an impossible climb between me and it.

I know all this is to come. I’ll plunge in momentarily, but I’ll stand here just a moment longer and enjoy the view.