Summer Writing

Debbie Hayes
Jul 25
3 min read

Updated: Aug 8

Person in an orange blanket relaxes on white chairs in tall grass by Big Indian Lake, with trees, Birch Island, and a blue sky overhead. Meadow Lake Farm. St. Albans Maine (Home of author, Deborah Lynn Hayes)

I'm an author with a couple novels and future plot twists forever running in my head. Which means I'm always giving life the side eye as it trolls me each week. Sometimes daily. If this sounds eerily familiar, grab a chair. We're swapping notes now!

Summer writing is very different from winter writing. In summer, the stories arrive. In winter, the actual pages come alive. Most people assume writing happens when we sit down at a keyboard. Not for me. The keyboard's an afterthought.

For me, it happens when I'm watering flowers and a burnt orange Camaro comes to a dead stop... then roars off like it's the Indy 500. Fifteen minutes later... it's back doing the exact same damn thing.

Or I'm standing in line at the grocery store and the woman in front of me has her cart loaded with two flats of sauerkraut... and the same number of fruit cocktail. Naturally, I have questions. (I don't dare ask).

Row of colorful classic book spines on a shelf, including The Desert, The Girls of Central High, Oh, Doctor!, and Black Beauty. St. Albans Maine Library.

Stories don't politely wait until I'm at my desk. They interrupt showers, hijack road trips, and have an annoying habit of showing up right as I'm drifting off to sleep. If I'm lucky, they come back in the morning. If I'm smart, I record a voice memo before they wander off to bother somebody else. Most times, when I'm neither lucky nor smart... I'll be on my computer at 3 a.m.

Brown chicken stands on a weathered porch beside bare feet, with a white cutout railing and sunny roadside background. Meadow Lake Farm. St. Albans Maine (Home of author, Deborah Lynn Hayes)

My idea for Ditchmas was supposed to be a simple Christmas Hallmark romance. About 250 pages. A ditch mishap. Middle-aged meet-cute in steel toe boots. Crank it out over a long weekend. Easy peasy.

Twelve months and two novels later...

Apparently Charlie Harris had other plans.

Two kayakers paddle on Big Indian Lake beside a dock, with forested shores and a pastel evening sky. St. Albans Maine.

I don't go looking for stories. They usually float right up. The first feedback I got about my book was "There's a whole lotta beverage drinking goin' on!" Now my daughters look at the six cups in front of us, glance up at me and go, "We've got wayyy too much beverage drinking goin' on here."

Guilty as charged. It's become a standing joke.

I don't invent the raw material. I just take notes. Then later my brain gets involved... and that's when warning labels start flying. Fast.

The other day my daughter, Heather, comes flying up the stairs... breathless. A frantic look on her face.

"The St. Albans library's open!!"

I jumped up. We tore down the street as fast as flip flops could take us. The door was still open. The guy was cool, let us poke around the dusty shelves.

Vintage children’s books on a wooden shelf, including Twins in the Country by Laura Lee Hope, with an illustrated cover. St. Albans Maine library.

I've lived in St. Albans over 20 years and we've peered into those little library windows... longingly.

That's right. We live in a town with a library the size of a shack, no electricity, books dating to 1611... and is open once a year for an hour and 47 minutes. Unless you happen to catch it while they're decorating for Summerfest.

Smiling girl in red-and-white outfit leads a white pony decorated with red, white, and blue ribbons down a sunny St. Albans Maine Summerfest parade.

So the guy comes in and chats with us. Tells me he's with the Historical Society. I light up. Start slinging the questions to him. No, there aren't any records from when the town was chartered... or the was dam built... or when it moved down from the top of Devil's Head Mountain. Not many records on much of anything.

Really? No town records? I'm thinking... I can write (say) anything.

Then this Historical Society man says, "Well... I've only lived here for five years."

Only five years, huh? Little did he know he was now a sitting duck.

I glanced over at Heather. She was head down in some decayed ten inch tome. So I mentioned that I live up the road... on what used to be the Patten farm. He blinked. Nodded slightly.

White farmhouse partly hidden by large trees under a bright blue, cloud-streaked sky on a quiet lawn. Meadow Lake Farm. St. Albans Maine (Home of author, Deborah Lynn Hayes)

I said, "Originally Letsem Tuggerbuns place. Prominent name in St. Albans. Ever heard of him? First name, Blithely? Any records?"

He blinks. Then blinks again, "Not that I've seen."

I shrugged, "Yeah, probably not."

I almost added Smiley Pincherass... but decided enough St. Albans 'lore' for one afternoon.

I'd love to be a fly on the wall at the Historical Society meeting if he happens to ask, "Hey, anyone got any background on Blithely Letsem Tuggerbuns? Prominent old timer, I heard..."

Since there aren't many town records, we'll assume I'm pretty safe.

Next time: Smiley Pincherass.

Back to Summer Farmhouse

Visit the Porch Shop

Save to Pinterest —