It takes a long time to write a book.

Actually, writing a book does not take that long. Getting a book sold and edited and published takes far more time than I imagined. But my waiting is finally over as this book, “Loon Point,” that I started writing two and a half years ago, will be released at the end of the month.

I was sure I would be completely terrified on the eve of my first novel’s release. I was sure that there would be a million things I still had to do, and a thousand regrets for things I should have done sooner, and at least a hundred things on my to-do list every single day. This has not proven to be the case.

The process has been remarkably smooth, and I have panicked far less frequently than I imagined I would. Instead, I have been touched by how sincerely folks have welcomed my first little novel. I’ve had quite a few newspapers review “Loon Point,” and -- for me -- this is the hardest part. If the reviews were bad, I could say, “They make an excellent point. I could have done a better job!” But when the reviewer says nice things about my writing, I find it hard to read. When the early reviews came out, I made my husband, Peter, read them first.

“What do they say?” I asked Peter.

“It’s all good,” he told me.

“That’s what I was afraid of!” I find the whole thing terribly embarrassing.

But I love to hear from readers. I had a few early readers, and when they told me they stayed up late to finish, or stopped before they read the last chapter so the book wouldn’t be done so soon -- those comments made me want to cry.

The world doesn’t need any more books -- that’s what many people will tell you.

There are more books printed every day than anyone could possibly read. I have piles of books I intend to read, and the possibility of ever getting to the bottom of the pile seems remote. I am more than a little aware that there is no shortage of reading material.

And yet, I’m glad I wrote this book. Because, two and a half years later, I still believe the book will make people happy and perhaps feel a little better about the world they live in, or their neighbors, or their lives. And I still think it is funny.

There will never be another first book. This experience will soon be over and, with any luck at all, there will be another book and one after that. The uncertainty will be less pronounced. The fears will diminish.

But I don’t think the excitement will ever end. Because telling a story never grows old. If I’d been born in a different place and time -- if I’d been born long ago -- I can easily imagine myself sitting by a fire at night and, when things seemed a little dull, or a little gloomy, or perhaps the folks gathered around the fire were a little scared, I would tell a story.

My story would not be important. It would not change anyone’s life or change the world. But I think there must be an evolutionary advantage to a sense of humor. I think it somehow helps us to survive the hard times. For a few minutes that night, the darkness might not seem as impenetrable, the future might seem a bit less ominous, and we would find things to laugh about together.

And that is enough.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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For the most part, I congratulate myself on being relatively competent at managing technology. I don’t have an overwhelming fear of learning new apps or platforms and have even caught myself feeling a little smug when others profess terror at the prospect of updating their website or mastering a new program.

All smugness disappeared this week.

I got caught in a technology black hole over a $20 bill. I owed a company $20 for forwarding my email to me. This is something that should have taken less than a minute to resolve. Three days later, I was still battling.

The company was based in India. I won’t bore you with the details of why it was based in India or how this company was chosen (I had plenty of opportunity to question the choice over the last three days), but it has provided excellent service, and I had had no reason to believe it wasn’t a good choice. Until this week.

I couldn’t log in to my account. That was the only problem. They did not have my phone number on record, and the only other means of verifying my account involved changing information in the directory of my website, and I knew -- before I even tried -- I was in over my head.

(I realize there are tech-savvy folks reading this right now and saying, “How hard could that be?” and I’m sure they are right; it was probably much easier than I imagined, but that does not mean it was not far more difficult than I could manage.)

So I wrote an email. The response I received provided an entirely new set of instructions for how to verify the account. I wrote back asking for clarification. A different tech person replied with an answer that appeared to bear no relation to the question I had asked.

I wrote back with more questions; they dutifully provided replies. Every email was signed by a different employee of this very large tech company in India. Every letter was exceedingly polite -- and made not one bit of sense.

I parsed the letters carefully. I read them aloud. I looked for similar phrases as if I were looking for clues to find a buried treasure -- although in this case, my treasure was the privilege of paying them $20 and not having my email shut off.

Twenty emails later (this is not an exaggeration), I began to despair. I realized I had accomplished almost nothing in the last two days other than write emails to India. I had visions of an endless line of Indian technicians -- stretching as far as the eye could see -- ready to write pleasant replies to a witless woman in the U.S. As I exhausted the patience of one technician, another would step into his place, producing an infinite supply of unfailingly polite and utterly incomprehensible technical jargon.

I caved.

I hired someone on Fiverr from Bangladesh to serve as an intermediary. With my permission, he took over my computer, figured out how to get into my account, arranged a Zoom call with the company and -- after a scheduled Zoom call and yet one more phone conversation -- I was able to pay the $20.

“I don’t suppose I could pay for more than a year?” I asked at the end of the final phone call.

“No, but this will take you all the way to the end of 2026!” the exceedingly cheerful company spokesman told me.

I have many wonderful expectations for 2026, but I am already working up a little dread for the year’s end.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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Last summer, Judy approached me one day when I was walking by an old church.

“I see you walking by here every day!” she said.

“Oh, yes. I need to walk!” I told her.

Judy is an associate pastor at this Episcopal church. She did not appear intent on getting me to church, but she was excited because they were having silent meditation in the chapel. She wondered if I might like to join.

“It’s open to anyone?” I asked.

“Every Tuesday night from 6:00 to 7:00. Stay as long as you want!” Judy said.

So I came the next Tuesday. Judy keeps the door open, and she puts a little sign on the sidewalk, inviting anyone to come in. I arrived a little late, after others had come, and I quietly took a seat, imagining I might sit there for 20 minutes or so.

But there was quiet music playing, and the chapel was so peaceful. It was old and small, and the pews were dark oak. There was an altar with round, golden icons over it and candles burning on it. The windows were stained glass. It smelled like old churches do, at least ones where they occasionally burn incense. The sun was still up, and the afternoon light made patterns on the stained glass. Before I knew it, Judy rang a large singing bowl, which made a resonant sound that hung in the air, and the hour was up.

“I hope you come again,” Judy said. And I did.

All summer, the attendance varied. Some people came in for only a few minutes. Some stayed the entire hour. Every week, I arrived promptly at 6:00 and took a seat in the front.

And the hour became important to me. It’s hard to say why, because meditation is not so much a thing I do, as a thing I don’t do. My busy brain quiets for a time. Thoughts come and float away, and very slowly I feel emotions floating to the top, things that are important, things I should have noticed, things I might have forgotten.

And at the end, Judy rings the bell.

Then I left for Mexico. I told Judy I’d be gone for a while. But the first Tuesday we were back, I went to meditation. There was no one there but Judy.

“Is meditation happening?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Sometimes we get more people than other times. Last week, I was here by myself.”

So Judy sat quietly, and so did I. And no one joined us on that cold winter night. And that is how it has been ever since. The sidewalk is cleared of snow. The little sign sits by the open door so anyone walking by will know they are welcome. But this winter, it has just been Judy and me, sitting at opposite sides of the tiny chapel for an hour in silence.

“Does it bother you to open the chapel for just one person?” I asked. I felt bad about Judy lighting the candles and sitting for an hour with only me in attendance -- when I’m not even an Episcopalian.

“No,” Judy said. “I need it, too.”

And the next week it was the same. The quiet was the same. The same dark outside. The same smell of burning candles and a sense of peace that seemed to settle right into my bones.

“Thank you,” I told Judy again. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she said.

And people say that, you know. But I wondered if Judy wasn’t telling the truth.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION