40,000

I've reached 40,000 words in my next novel, tentatively titled SHATTERED RHYMES.

I like where the story is going and how we've arrived there. Pecking away at the keys as part of NaNoWriMo, it's like getting to know old friends again.

No, not all 40,000 words have been written in four days. I pretty much shelved the book for the last 7 months or so, after we learned of my mother's cancer diagnosis and her eventual passing in early June.

The muse shut down, just as it did 14 years ago after learning of my youngest sister's diagnosis of breast cancer. Fortunately, she was able to beat it and is doing very well now.

And, fortunately, the muse was merely on hiatus, as SHATTERED RHYMES has shown. It's a very different book than FALLEN TREES, but like FT it's a story that wouldn't let me alone. Once the idea sprouted, the muse kept tugging at me with more and more details until I realized I had to do something with it. I have no word count goal or timetable for completion, but I've got to keep going until it's done.

And then the hard work begins, as any writer will tell you: honing the drafts until it's tight and gleaming. If the reaction to FALLEN TREES has taught me anything, it's to trust my instincts.

The little boy on the train

I heard the train whistle as I was walking at Towne West mall late Sunday afternoon, so I moved to the right to let the little choo-choo pass.

The train is usually crammed with kids. But this one was empty - clear to the last car.

A young father sat snugly, his arm curled protectively around a son who couldn't have been more than three years old. The boy was standing so he could have a better view.

He was completely bald. I wondered why a child that age would have no hair on his head, and then our eyes met - and I knew.

His luminous, coal-black eyes had a sadness to them, a wisdom, that comes from deep suffering - both his own and what he has witnessed. I've seen that look numerous times in children who were battling cancer or other grave illnesses.

Such battles make children grow up in a hurry. But this lad still had enough little boy left in him to grin when I smiled at him.

As the end of the train moved past me, he raised his arms above his head so he could feel the air rushing ever so gently past him.

When the train passed the front of a clothing store, he turned and waved at a handful of mannequins in the window, as if it was a crowd standing next to the tracks.

That's when I saw the scar.

It had the shape of a half-moon, perhaps three inches from point to point, and had healed well. I found myself wondering if surgeons had removed a brain tumor, and said a quick prayer for his recovery.

Part of me wanted to run ahead, catch the train and introduce myself. But just then a woman came over the loudspeakers and announced that the mall was closing. I realized I'd never make it to the debarkation point in time, and without my reporter's ID the father would probably question my sanity and motives.

And so I'll be left with memories of that fleeting moment in the mall, and how things we commonly take for granted can mean so much to a little boy.