I started writing Defining Aidan when Zander was a baby and had regular naps.  I would escape into the world of Adelaine McCarthy, feeling like she was my dearest friend with whom I shared many secrets.  My fingers flew over the keys, the story coming easily and comfortably.  It was an organic creation riddled with memories of my own childhood that I adopted unto her until she slowly morphed into a near reflection of myself.  I chose Oklahoma because I wanted her to speak with a southern drawl.  I chose to widow her because I wanted to follow her journey of forced self-discovery while her son, Aidan, approaches the world with a precociousness, optimism and an interpretation of God that Adelaine struggles to comprehend.

And then it stopped.  I had nothing more.  The story left me, the little icon on my computer desktop standing as a tombstone to what might have been had I found an ending.

I have revisited it over the past six years, thinking that by re-reading it the rest of the story would suddenly drop into my head.  I never did.  This broke my heart.  Poor Adie was left suspended in time, shelved indefinitely...

Then yesterday, when inspiration seemed so far removed from my existence that I thought I may never create again, when frustration threatened the last thread of my patience, when exhaustion tugged weary eyelids and the digital clock read 2:03 am it fell on me like a warm quilt.  Inspiration.  A slide projector.  The old Drive-In Theatre.  Curdling milk.  Perfect.  It won't make sense to you now but someday it will, when I sign your beautifully bound copy of Defining Aidan and you're reading and remembering the day I told you I was resurrected from my offensive writers block.

Watch out Broken Bow, Oklahoma - I'm coming back!  Let's get this story told!