Nine years ago this past April, my husband and I took our first trip to Seattle. A couple of important things happened on that trip with regards to my writing. The first was that I discovered my “hobby” could actually develop into something serious if I had the time to devote to it. This is how that discovery came about.
Dixon: I’m off to my conference now, dear. See you later. I’ll come back for lunch if I can.
Me: (giving him lingering kiss by the door of our suite in downtown Seattle) I’ll miss you.
Door closes; Dixon leaves. Without bothering to get out of my pajamas, I settle in front of my laptop, excited to write the scene that’s been bouncing around in my head for so long.
Some time later . . .
Dixon: (entering room) Hi.
Me: (not bothering to look up from laptop) Hi.
Dixon: I, uh, thought we were going on a dinner cruise tonight.
Me: (still typing and still not looking up) Mm-hm. I can’t wait.
Dixon: You don’t have to. We’re supposed to leave in a few minutes.
Me: (head snapping up) What?!
Dixon: (observing my disheveled hair and pajamas) So what have you done today? I take it you didn’t go shopping or anything.
Me: (Scrambling to plug in my curling iron, get into my little black dress, and put on mascara all at the same time) No. I’ve been in Scotland in the 12th century all day. You see there’s really evil Englishman, and he set this castle on fire and murdered this Scottish Laird’s wife. So the Scottish guy had to get even, so he went down to England and set the English guy’s castle on fire, but he didn’t kill his wife, even though he could have. But the fire and trauma made her baby come early, and the little girl died. So now she wants revenge, so she goes to Scotland. Except she ends up falling in love with the guy who caused her all the grief, but she doesn’t realize who he is until it’s too late and—
Dixon: (looking at me with glazed eyes) I’m not so sure this climate is good for you.
Me: It’s great! I wrote eight thousand words today.
And so our trip went. While the other wives who’d accompanied their husbands to the conference were out and about shopping, sight seeing, and sitting by the pool, I was content to sit in our suite (which had a most inspiring view of the Space Needle) and write all day. Something had clicked inside, and I was finally in my element. I was amazed and overjoyed to discover I could write for eight hours at a time, and it seemed as if about eight minutes had passed. For the first time, I felt like a real writer.
At night Dixon and I explored Seattle, and I fell in love with it. For a lot of reasons it deserves its claim as one of the most romantic cities. Then, during one of Dixon’s free days, we rented a car and took a ferry ride out to the island of Bainbridge. During our drive around this enchanting, charming island, we passed a house with gorgeous landscaping, a white picket fence–the works. Sometime between seeing that house and the ferry ride back to Seattle, an idea formed in my mind, and by the time we drove our car off the ferry, I’d met Jane, Caroline, Jay, Peter, Mark and Madison from the story that would become Counting Stars. I could hardly wait to get back to our hotel and start writing it—except that I was in the middle of another story, and I knew I needed to finish it first.
Turns out it took me a very long time to finish my Scottish historical and get it to pass muster with the critique group I joined the following year. My “Seattle Story,” as I thought of it, had to percolate for quite some time. So when I finally sat down to write it, I was relying on memories several years old. Fortunately I had some Seattle connections, and was able to fill in the blanks as needed. It was a magical thing when Counting Stars was published last year.
A couple of weeks ago, Dixon and I had the opportunity to return to Seattle. I was excited to go and revisit the places I’d written about, but I was also nervous they’d be different than I’d remembered them, and somehow the magic would change. I needn’t have worried.
Shortly after arriving in the city, an eery sense of deja vu descended on me, starting when a Northwest Airlift helicopter flew overhead—heading toward Swedish Medical Center. Later, as we were riding the ferry, I watched as a young man with a ponytail braved the rain to stand out on the deck alone. When we were walking down mainstreet in Bainbridge, a brown haired young woman, who happened to be driving a Jeep, stopped to let us cross the street. I felt like raising my hand and calling, “Hi, Jane.”
The orange rolls in the bakery were delicious, the island even more beautiful than I remembered. And my only disappointment was not being able to find the house we’d seen on our first visit. But I did see another—a larger home, still with white picket fence and gorgeous landscaping, and a large wooden play structure in back. It wasn’t hard to imagine Jane, being the motivated character she was, disassembling the swingset at their rental and moving it to the cottage on Bainbridge. It was also easy to imagine that she and Peter would have added onto that cottage by now, as there are some changes coming in their family. Changes I hope to incorporate in the two stories I still hope to write about Caroline and Tara.
Visiting Seattle again was a wonderful treat, as time alone with my husband always is. It was also just the thing to get the imagination going, the ideas flowing. And with that . . . back to writing.