On Letting Time Go By

I set my historical novel aside a while ago. Took all the old newspaper clippings off the floor, cleared my desk of the 19th century fashion tome, stuck nail files and useless pens inside the research books I had only just begun. I didn't go cold turkey on it. I'd try to sneak in a sentence or two, a note on character—4 AMish, or close to midnight. I'd take my walks, and as I was walking, I'd think, What is Katherine, my heroine, doing just now? How weary is she growing of the heat? What does she yearn for, and how does she yearn?

But I couldn't hold onto her. I kept losing her inside errand lists and desperate client deadlines. Inside the mall, where I'd gone to shop for holiday gifts. At parties, where the talk was tomorrow, not 130 years ago. Among the kids at the ballroom dancing competition. In the lights. In the memories. In the call I made to my son's future college home: Thank you, I said to the admissions counselor. Thank you. Thank you.

I couldn't hold onto Katherine.

And so I decided not to torment her any longer, not to torment myself. I have decided (again, for I am always newly deciding this) that life must first be lived before it can be written. That stories rise in us and insist on themselves according to their own clocks and measures. In January, when the snow sets in, in February, when it is gray, in March, when the frost clings to low fringe of my windows, Katherine will walk herself back into my room. She will say, My time is now, and I will say, I've been missing you.