This Writer’s Life

There is something special about the beginning of a new novel. Before the first chapter is written, the world exists only in the imagination. Characters are little more than names and personalities waiting to reveal themselves. Entire civilizations, star systems, and histories are still hidden, waiting to be discovered.

That's where I find myself today.

If it weren’t for all the trees, I could probably see the peak from my house. On clear days, I do see it as I drive into town. Those of you who are old enough probably remember the eruption of Mount Saint Helens, forty-six years ago this week. I certainly do. I had just completed four years in the Navy and returned home with my British wife, Lorraine, and infant son. I rented a house in town and got a job.

I live in the Pacific Northwest, and right now the seasons are changing. Winter is a time of short days, long nights, and steady cold rain. But in the spring, the rains ease off and the days begin to warm. This is the time of year when I can sit outside, watch the chickens wander like they own the place, and take in the deer, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and flocks of birds that share the property with me. This year, I decided to add one more group to the mix—I introduced a hive of bees.