Page 20 of In a Word, Yes

The woman sits up straighter, adopts a perky demeanor. “All good. It’s a wrap for me. Loved your piece on community participation.”

The editor’s chest puffs out a touch. “Why, thank you, Montgomery. So, listen...” He steeples his hands. “I have got an assignment with your name all over it.”

Oh my. Whatwillmy subject, Lucy Montgomery, do?

I notice she flinches.

“Hear me out,” he says. “Think human interest profile. In fact, for my money, there’s no one better suited to capturing the personal aspect than you.”

For sure he’s buttering our poor Lucy up. But also, sheiscapable,and she knows it—when she’s honest with herself. Lucy’s eyelid spasms. “When do you need it?”

Oh, come on.I’m embarrassed for the woman. Which is to say, for me. No self-respecting novelist would choose her for their starring heroine. That woman, the one with an abysmal lack of main-character energy and whose body I must now reinhabit, she issostalling right now.

Iam stalling.

Sam lifts a marionberry-and-cheese Danish onto a paper plate. Today our treats came from Honey Buns Bakery, courtesy of the chamber. This has no one complaining.

“Seven or eight hundred words by end of day Friday,” Sam says.

I try to muster my usual defense, but it’s no good. For possibly the first time, I’m forced to acknowledge something about the noes I hand out so regularly.

No, can’t you see I’m a single mom—not to mention, mama to aspecial-needs kid—and therefore haven’t the flexibility or the bandwidth to attend your delightful social functions and/or to challenge myself in new ways? No, I would notlike to host a lingerie party, attend your paint-and-sip, or join your therapeutic axe-throwing group. And mostespecially, nothing you say will ever convince me to blind-date your cousin Milo, no matter how many drive-throughespresso huts he owns. No, no, no.

And now I’ll thank you to please go away and leave me to my unperturbed—if exceedingly predictable—existence.

Maybe once upon a time these were true statements. Now, though, I have to call them out for what they are—excuses. To avoid ever experiencing another moment of discomfort.Face it, Montgomery. Your idea of venturing outside your comfort zone is sticking your foot out of a perfectly tucked blanket cocoon.

At my hesitation, Sam’s shoulders sink. “Well. Anyway. I’ll need your answer by end of day.”

Is this my get-back-on-the-surfboard moment? My response to theNew York Times’ Wordle vendetta? Is this my best yes?

I am a woman in possession of a vintage Smith Corona typewriter and her grandmother’s favor. God isforme. I lift my chin.

“I’ll do it,” I blurt a thousand times more confidently than I feel. I have to admit, it’s satisfying to watch all those curmudgeonly creases in Sam’s face visibly soften.

“Stellar!” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “I’ll get you the info.”

I’m seized by the need to retreat. Somewhere alone, where I can complete the reunion of out-of-body Lucy with the woman who just agreed to something stretchy. The one now beset with a hint of nausea, not to mention a still water-logged ballet flat, thanks to this morning’s off-roading episode.

“It feels like a coyote took a cookie-bite out of my tummy,” Chase once moaned during one of his vague tummy ailments (which usually turn out to be anxiety). Right now, I find this description apropos.

I grab my tote. “Be back in ten,” I tell Dot.

Ten minutes should be long enough, right? Long enough to completely mutate into the kind of strong female lead character that could carry a Steph Stoneback novel? No problem.

***

Surrounded by a lush green lawn, the town library sits kitty-corner from the news office, and I love this so much. After dropping the novel I just finished into the book depository and quickly perusing the display marked “Hot New Titles,” I take a moment on my favorite garden bench outside.

Under this aspen, which I’ve come to think of asmyaspen, amid the first light scattering of amber leaves across the grass and the happy chorus of birdsong, I munch on cheesy pretzel mix and bask in a surprising sense of peace. Company arrives, sporting a brick-red mustache and king-like robe of speckled ermine.

“Well, hello, handsome,” I say to the northern flicker. The birdrat-a-tat-tats at the aspen, pausing now and again to consider my presence here.

Birds remember not the former things. They know not what tomorrow will bring. And yet they remain intent. On making a home. Making a life.

On silent wings, the unspoken sentiment behind Nana’s gift alights. For a granddaughter prone to faintheartedness, the typewriter embodies Nana’s garden of bodacious hopes and prayers. Nana Lucia, my namesake, wants me to make a life.

To take ownership of my story.