Hi, friends.

Well, this plan to keep off TikTok for a couple of months has so far been a very positive experience. I do miss seeing regular updates from all my friends on The Clock, but my productivity has gone through the roof! I've been writing, narrating, hiking, housecleaning (I know, boring, but still satisfying), painting at my easel, journaling, and working on a puzzle when I need to rest my brain. Life feels balanced.

I am so excited about my work-in-progress, Secondary Feathers. It's contemporary realistic fiction—women's fiction, I guess you would say—and it is so much fun to write. I hope Natalie's character is relatable to women over fifty, especially those who suddenly find they must reinvent themselves. I wanted to write a character who is strong, creative, funny, vulnerable, and "stuck" in many ways.

I thought I would share the first chapter with you here. If you choose to read it, I'd love to hear your impressions!

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SECONDARY FEATHERS

CHAPTER ONE

I stared at my new keyboard. It was designed to look like an old vintage typewriter, with round keys that made a loud, mechanical clackity-clack sound when you typed. It was an impulse buy—my fourth that week. I’d hit a dead end with my manuscript again, shut down Word in frustration, and found myself on Amazon. And there it was, an old-timey typewriter keyboard, just begging me to waste more money I didn’t have.

I’d justified the purchase by telling myself it would be fun to use— encouraging me to sit at my desk and work with improved focus. The clackity-clack of the keys alone would ensure I’d make my daily 1500 words. But most importantly, it would remind me of being a kid, when I’d made forts under the dining room table and written horse stories on my dad’s old IBM Selectric. Writing had felt effortless back then, and my fingers had left sparks on the keys. But now? Now, every word was a struggle. Every idea seemed like a mountain I couldn’t seem to climb, and I’d given up on ever hoping to recapture that carefree joy; instead, I was chained to deadlines, marketing plans, and to placating my agent, Angela. Not to mention I had more rejection slips from literary publications than I could paper my walls with. And the worst part? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that spark—that thrill of creating just for myself.

I tapped sluggishly at a few keys. Wrote, ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life,’ and stared at the sentence. Who had initially said that? And what was the point of it? Wasn’t it just stating the obvious? And if you were in a really dark place facing an even darker future—like, say you were being held hostage in a mountain cabin by a serial killer—wouldn’t a message like that make you want to give up and slit your wrists?

I closed my work in progress, a story tentatively called The UnReunion about three women who make a pact during their thirty-year high school reunion. God, I was so bored by it. I didn’t even like the characters anymore, especially Donna, the passive-aggressive one. Why had I put her in the novel? Why couldn’t I have conjured someone more interesting? An ex-circus performer or a pole dancer, or a woman who had spent the last twenty-five years studying penguin behaviour in Antarctica. But no, I had to go and fictionalize all the annoying people in my life. Zero points for creativity, Natalie.

My phone buzzed beside the mug of Rooibos tea on my desk. I peered at the screen. It was Tanya. I couldn’t help smirking, because of course it was. Tanya had been Donna’s inspiration in my novel, and now here she was, interrupting my self-loathing session.

I let the call go to voicemail. I didn’t have the energy for her today. And besides, technically, I was working. Or at least pretending to be. Although it seemed “working” meant buying things I didn’t need on Amazon and eating too much almond butter on hard tack while staring out the kitchen window at the apple tree that grew in the ditch across the road. Every year, I collected a basket full of ditch apples, vowing to make a crumble or pie, but it never happened. They always ended up forgotten, rotting on the back porch. Still, good intentions had to count for something, though, didn’t they?

A second buzz told me I had a voicemail. I reluctantly pressed play, holding the phone a safe distance from my ear because, as my daughter would say, Tanya was “so extra.”

“Hey, Nat. You didn’t return my call last night, so I guess you’re either writing a lot or sleeping a lot because you're not writing. You did say you had some writer’s block last month, didn’t you? God, I hope it’s not the latter because you haven’t published anything in forever, hun. Has Angela been on your case? Maybe that’s why you’re screening your calls. HAH! Anyway, Cher is coming over tonight, and we thought we’d do a little Netflix binge-watching. You should come, too. Get your mind off things. I have some great wine from Davina? That local vineyard up in Alderlea? Cher’s bringing veggies and dip. Seven o’clock. Oh, and I forget to tell you that—

I hit “end” and set my phone face down on the desk.

Then I picked it up again, tucked it inside the sweatshirt I’d discarded three days ago, and pushed the whole thing off the edge of the desk, hoping it would just... disappear.

I knew I needed to get out and see people, but Tanya and Cher weren’t exactly the kind of company that made me feel good about myself these days. The last thing I was in the mood for was Tanya humble-bragging about Doug’s latest love-language move—his “language” being physical touch—because one didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to guess how he liked to express it. Or which room of the house he liked to express it in.

Cher wasn’t much better. But she didn’t talk much about her husband of twenty-six years; she preferred to talk about everybody else’s. If I didn’t go tonight (and I’d already decided I would rather chew glass), I’m sure she would be talking about my husband…or should I say, my soon-to-be “ex” husband.

Yeah. Go for it.

Talking about Phillip was about as much fun as washing out old tins of baked beans for the recycle bin. I chuckled, remembering Phillip's obsession with the recycling buckets we kept in the mudroom.

“You need to get all the paper off, Natalie.”

“Don’t just chuck them in the bin; you need to flatten them first.”

“Are you using the designated scouring pad to remove all food particles?”

Food particles. Who even said that in a normal conversation? Just say food! I wondered if “Lindy,” shared his love of recycling with equal enthusiasm. Because who wouldn’t want to spend their weekends meticulously sorting aluminum from steel while whispering sweet nothings to each other over a pile of crushed tuna cans? She imagined the pair of them snuggling on the couch in their stupid condo, surrounded by an artful arrangement of discarded meta, as Phillip passionately explained the complex nuances of single-stream recycling. What screamed ‘romance’ like a shared love for reducing a carbon footprint?

I chuckled again because despite being environmentally aware, I now took great pleasure in chucking my empty tin cans straight into the garbage--unflattened, with paper labels and food particles intact. It was a childish move, but this small act of rebellion was very empowering. Phillip could go fuck himself.

So, no, I would not be Netflix-binging with Tanya and Cher tonight. I wasn’t in the mood to play the role of the "supportive friend" listening to their so-called perfect lives, pretending I had it all together while my own life was falling apart.

***

“Shall we have something decadent? Some of that key lime pie, maybe?”

“You go ahead,” I told Angela. “I’m just going to stick to my coffee.”

Angela raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow at me. “Are you sure? My treat.”

I smiled in what I hoped was a gracious manner. Yes, I was sure I did not want a piece of key lime pie. I didn’t really want the coffee, either, and I especially didn’t want the meeting. But now and then, a writer must knock heads with his or her literary agent, and this was one of those times.

I knew why we were meeting in person instead of connecting via email or Zoom. Angela was worried about me. She had concerns about the novel I was working on. It had been months since I’d given her any update, and I was supposed to have a first draft to my editor in just under two months. No way in hell that was going to happen.

Angela ordered her pie, and we both got our mugs refilled. We talked about the weather—how cold it was for September—and discussed our plans for Christmas. I didn’t tell her I would love to boycott Christmas altogether if I didn’t have Ellie and Jack coming home over the holidays. Instead, I made some banal comments about making the family-famous Christmas cake over the next couple of weeks so it would have plenty of time to marinate in the weekly brandy showers I would give it.

“Oh!” Angela enthused. “Do you put in whole almonds and cherries, too? With just enough batter to stick all the fruit and nuts together?” Her eyes were wide and bright, and I felt bad for being such a cynical Scrooge when she was clearly Christmas-obsessed. I couldn’t blame her; Macy was two and Quinn was only six months. Christmas was fun when you had littles around. But this would be my first Christmas without Phillip, and though the last few had been grim, they had been familiar. In a twisted way, there was safety in that kind of thing. Pathetic, I know.

And then she said the thing. “So, how’s the book coming along?”

I laughed, a little too loud, and stirred my already-stirred coffee with a spoon. “Oh, you know. Good days, bad days. I’m getting there.” But I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye, and suddenly, everything felt awkward.

She covered my other hand with hers, squeezing it gently. “Nat? You’ve had a lot going on this year. I get it. It must be tough to focus.”

I looked up then, and her compassion hit me like a wave. My eyes filled with tears before I could stop them. I nodded, unable to speak.

“Do you need more time?” She asked softly. “Or do you want to talk about anything?”

I wasn’t sure if she meant talking about plot points, my husband’s cheating ass, or the fact he’d be buying me out of the house I’d lived in for twenty-nine years.

“I… I just need some more time, Angie,” I said. “Some more time and some quiet, and, I don’t know, a change of scene maybe.” And as the words left my mouth, I felt my pulse race a little. Because that was precisely what I needed! I needed to remove myself from all the sordid familiar things at home, hole up in some quiet little motel or something for a couple of months and just fucking write. Hell, I was going to be homeless at the end of the year anyway. Why mope around the house chasing dust bunnies, pretending I was the same person I’ve always been? I wasn’t. Not even a little.

Angie released my hand and sat back with a big smile on her face. A smile. It was not what I had expected. “Seriously?” she said, “You mean, like a vacation?”

“More like a working retreat,” I said. “Somewhere quiet. Just me, my laptop, and my fictional friends.”

“You know something? I think that’s a really good idea, Nat,” Angie said. “I can tell Wicklow House you’re fine-tuning things; put them off for a few months. They’ll understand; if they don’t, we can find another publisher.”

“We can?”

“Of course we can. You’re Natalie Scott!”

I smirked. She was being kind. While Wonderfully Unbelievable had brought me some recognition—a family drama spanning three decades—I wasn’t exactly rolling in the royalties. In truth, Phillip would be buying me out just in time. My savings were running low.

“So,” Angela said. “Where will you go? To the East Coast? Abroad? I hear the Scottish Hebrides is wild and isolated and—’

“Don’t be insane,” I laughed. “I can’t afford any of those options. I was thinking more like maybe snagging a room at the Motel 6 for a couple of months, the one out on Hwy 10?”

Angela wrinkled her nose, and then her big eyes widened so much that she instantly resembled a small, nocturnal rainforest creature.

“What?” I said.

She grinned, and I could feel enthusiasm bubbling up in her at warp speed. “How does a rustic cabin on the edge of Eagle Lake sound?”

“Eagle Lake?”

“Yeah, it’s about a four-hour drive from here, just past Freeley.”

“Go on,” I prompted.

Angela gripped her hands together in excitement. “This is perfect! It was meant to be!”

“Angela, I’m not following. Spill.”

Angela clasped her hands together like she was about to burst. “This is perfect! It’s meant to be! My Uncle Marcus has a place there—a handful of rustic cabins. He used to rent them out for hunting trips, but for the last twenty years, he’s been letting hikers, private groups, and sometimes corporate teams stay there. He’s selling it in the new year, so it’s closed now, but I’m his favourite niece—” she winked, “—so I’m sure he’d let you stay as long as you want, as long as you’re out by the end of the year.”

“Oh my God, really, Angie?” Immediately, my mind filled with images of log cabins, an old stone fireplace, pots of hearty soup on the wood stove, and a handmade patchwork quilt thrown over the end of an iron-framed double bed.

“Really. Only, it’s rustic. Like, there’s electricity and stuff, but there isn’t any WiFi. There’s cell service, which is good, though I’m told it’s a little dodgy. But no toilets. Just an outhouse. And you have to heat with wood. Are you any good with an axe?”

“Um … I—

“Maybe no Wifi would be a good thing, Nat,” Angela said, talking excitedly into her cup of coffee. “You’d be able to focus without distraction!”

“That does sound pretty appealing,” I admitted, my mind now swimming in the possibility. I imagined myself nestled in the woods, writing by candlelight with the quiet hum of nature around me. If this was real—and if I could actually go—maybe, just maybe, I could finally finish something. I could escape from the world that had been suffocating me. My pulse quickened again, and for the first time in a while, I felt a glimmer of hope.

“So?” Angie said, snapping me out of my daydream. “What do you think? Should I call my Uncle Marcus?”

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COMING IN 2025!​​

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I thought revealing some books I am waiting (not so patiently) for would be fun. There are always so many, but some stand out more than others. For starters:

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• Emily Henry's My Big Beautiful Life, dropping in April of 2025. Who doesn't like E-Hen? She's the Queen of Witty Banter, is she not? This one sounds like so much fun.

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ABOUT GREAT BIG BEAUTIFUL LIFE

Two writers compete for the chance to tell the larger-than-life story of a woman with more than a couple of plot twists up her sleeve in this dazzling and sweeping new novel from Emily Henry.

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In February of 2025, Anne Tyler's new novel, Three Days in June, releases, and I am SO excited for this one. If you haven't read any of Anne Tyler's works, I highly recommend them. I especially liked, Clock Dance - the story of a woman who decides that it's never too late to change who you are.

But, back to her new book. Here's what Penguin Random House has to say about it:

ABOUT THREE DAYS IN JUNE

A new Anne Tyler novel destined to be an instant classic: a socially awkward mother of the bride navigates the days before and after her daughter’s wedding.

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Lastly, and another one from Penguin Random House, is All the Other Mothers Hate Me, by Sarah Harman, releasing in March 2025. This one looks like FUN. It's giving me Ashley Audrain vibes. Here's what the publisher has to say about it:

ALL THE OTHER MOTHERS HATE ME

“The missing boy is 10-year-old Alfie Risby, and to be perfectly honest with you, he’s a little shit.”​
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Florence Grimes is a thirty-one-year-old party girl who always takes the easy way out. Single, broke and unfulfilled after the humiliating end to her girl band career, she has only one reason to get out of bed each day: her ten-year-old son Dylan. But then Alfie Risby, her son’s bully and the heir to a vast frozen food empire, mysteriously vanishes during a class trip, and Dylan becomes the prime suspect. Florence, for once, is faced with a task she can’t quit: She’s got to find Alfie and clear her son’s name, or risk losing Dylan forever.

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I LEAVE YOU WITH A WRITING PROMPT

I know quite a few of you like to write, and if you're like me, playing with writing prompts can be a fun way to grease the wheels. You might enjoy this one. It would be nice if I started with Exercise #1, but that would mean I would be highly organized. LOL. (Also, please ignore the bit at the end where I ask you to sign up for my newsletter, cos... um... you're already here.)

If you made it this far, thank you for hanging out. I will chat with you again in December. Stay well. X

Best,

Carol Anne

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Cobble Hill, Vancouver Island, BC CANADA

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