pamelagmusings

Musings

Pam's Musings

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

A long time ago or once upon a time, stifled by the desire to get everything right on paper, rendered immobile by my inner and nasty critic, I was encouraged to read Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott.  I have read it numerous times and often wish I could commit it to memory.  Ah, the perfection that comes from the memorized verse.  Lamott strikes out at the need and desire for perfection.  Instead, she pushes me to embrace the messiness of writing, to muse.  She tells me to let go and not worry about destination or the big picture.  She set before me the creed by which my musings are written, by which my inner wild woman craves to live:  “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right.  Just dance.”  When I muse, and this is a necessary part of my writing process, I don’t look.  I just write.  I hope you enjoy these musings.  I hope you muse as well.  

On Writing a Book, March & April, 2026

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Four years and about two months ago, I committed to writing the biography of Eleanor Prince. I realized that there would be no turning back. Weeks and weekends would be consumed by interviews, research, and arduous writing. Household chores would be minimized or ignored. I would avoid crowds for fear of contagions, exercise daily, eat well, and attempt to sleep well. I would rely on the comfort and advice of friends, but in the end, the labor would be all mine. 

This all sounded strangely familiar, even though I had never written a book before.  

In the early months, my writing room was all a-clutter, with old photos and spiral binders stacked with little regard for chronology. Items from Ellie—from horsemanship school rosters to plaques and decorated halters—were gathered and stored as one big file. I knew the items’ value, but organizing took a back seat to hours of writing. As the months passed, though, I began to see my writing room as my nest. I set about to assiduously arrange, re-arrange, dust, categorize, and alphabetize. I saw the room as a cradle for the seed of a biography. 

I decided, after completing the drafts of several early chapters, to keep a journal of this journey. I recorded reminders, lessons learned, ideas discovered, mistakes identified, and milestones. I filled the pages of a lovely little journal given to me by my youngest of three sons. I must have thought that someday, the book’s publication in the past, I would retrieve the journal and read my notes with nostalgia and with pride in the finished product.

As I started the journal, I began to ponder names for my book. I poured through the drafts, hoping to light on the perfect title. I had no idea of the book’s size, cover design, theme, tone, or style. It’s quite hard to think of the future when you’ve no concrete idea of the present.

The name came, though, in the night, when I had curled up with a book written by Ellie’s dear friend Gaydell Collier, a writer of prose that turned to near poetry under her pen. I lifted and made some changes to a short phrase from her memoir, Just Beyond Harmony. In the Scent of Horses, Hay, and Old Barns became my book’s title. How amazing it was to call my book by its name, especially one that connected the present to Ellie’s past.

As my draft became a manuscript, I sensed the reality of the book and spent more time working from my old rocking chair. I slowed my pace of proofreading. I transcribed with greater delicacy. Paragraphs were more critically judged. Those with promise were strongly nurtured. The reality of what I was creating was overwhelming. I found strength, comfort and even angst in this insight. Yet, I feared the hidden imperfections and inabilities. I remembered, though, that a musician once told me that imperfections in recorded music give it beauty and make it real.

I took hope in the musician’s words. I took hope in my prose and images that wove together like a child’s knitted cap, creating one story, a real, true, living story.

As the book grew, I grew. I learned to work with greater humility and patience. I learned to accept that writing doesn’t always go the way you want it to, that it can have a mind of its own. I reminded myself that this book was not being created for me. It was for the world that it would be born into. I would have to let it go.  

It took a mother’s faith to send chapters and then the full manuscript to editors. It was not unlike sending my three sons off into the world of their own lives. I was blessed to have loving editors on the other end of my computer’s “Send” button. After hitting that button, I imagined the horror of internet travel for innocent documents. I felt great relief when my editors texted,” It’s here. It’s okay. We have it.” My grown sons know that still, when they travel, they must text “Home” when they have safely arrived.

As I end this musing, I look forward to readings and book signings. The memory of baby showers comes to mind. A few days ago, a dear friend who I met through the creation of the book came to my house for tea. I handed her a copy of the book and stood patiently aside, forgotten, as she hungrily leafed through the pages. After a bit, she remembered me, looked up, and said, “It’s just like being a mom, isn’t it? After all that work, you stand to the side as your children take the glory.” I wouldn’t have it any other way.