I was filled with purpose resolve and determination. I ignored the breakfast dishes in the sink and the sticky orange juice imprints on the floor. I did throw in a load of laundry. I figured the washing machine might as well work while I did. I finally settled at my workstation with my second cup of coffee. (Okay I grabbed a granola bar too. Cost me just a minute. It’s not like I was getting paid for my time.)

I opened a new document hit File Save As “The Great Jewish American Novel 1.doc.”

Success coursed through my veins. I had arrived. My novel had begun!

My writing instructor had said “The opening sentence should grab your readers’ attention. Start with dialogue or a dramatic scene. Make an entrance. Be descriptive use your senses. Let the readers see the scene, hear the noise!” Mrs. Fisher was actually my son’s fourth-grade English teacher but with the number of hours of homework I had supervised and the considerable tuition I had paid I felt justified in using her writing outlines as my guide.

I hit Save again just to be safe and my fingers itched to begin.

“Back door!” yelled Brian to the driver over the cacophony of high school students, pounding his fists on the yellow tape running down the double doors in the rear of New York City’s B9 city bus. The bus lurched, gave a short stop, and with a low and thankful hiss, released the back doors. Brian disembarked the—”

My fingers were flying, but my brain soon caught up. The B9 or the B11? Maybe the B82? Where was he living? He was supposed to take the train to work in the city. Does he need the bus? Should I skip that scene? Maybe I shouldn’t use real bus routes and street names. Was that even legal?

I wrote “First scene, going to work.”

I then highlighted it, changed the font to 26, and made it Bold and Red. Save.

Over the baby monitor, I heard the faint sounds of stirring. I thought session one was quite the success.

Despite my long to-do list for Thursday, I still planned to keep to my strict writing schedule. While there were groceries to buy, challah to bake, shirts to iron, and flashlights to assemble (long story, maybe after the Great Jewish American Novel 1), there was also a novel to write.

As it turned out, the baby was up all night long and finally fell asleep in the carriage on the way back from the kids’ bus stop. I was thrown into Morning Nap an hour and a half ahead of schedule. Never mind that I hadn’t yet mapped out the scene in my mind (or even brushed my teeth); it was time to seize the day.

Pulling up the document on my computer, I tried to ease myself back into the story’s setting, and the protagonist’s mind. Oh, I knew what the story would be about; I just needed to get into the right mode. The right frame of mind. I needed another coffee.

I got my thoughts together while dunking my chocolate-chip biscotti into the warm, rich brew.

I knew Brian’s life, from his humble beginnings in a small rural town in Kentucky, through his discovery of his rich Jewish heritage in Brooklyn’s Flatbush neighborhood after his company transferred him to their flagship location in New York, to the years of struggle and conflict he’d endure finding his way home, to his beautiful marriage to the refined and sweet FFB Gitty Markowitz. I was privy to Gitty’s family’s objections, her hopes to build a Torah home at last, and even her final decision to go with the stunning calla lily centerpieces at their wedding. So much to tell, but how could I give over the depth and character to the readers? How could I express his turmoil or her yearnings?

I glanced around for Mrs. Fisher’s writing guide, but my son must have taken it back to school. I sighed. For the tuition I paid, I should have at least gotten two copies. I did, though, have a copy of the gorgeous floral centerpiece I had ripped out from a magazine a few months back. That was good. I’d start with the wedding—the final scene.

First File — Save.

Boruch gazed out from his place on the dais at the oilem, filled with gratitude and humbleness at the crowd he felt proud to call his family: neighbors, the shiur group, the yeshivah bochurim from Makor Chaim, the balabatim from Rabbi Stein’s shul, and most importantly, his new wife at his side. His wife! Gitty, her face radiating joy, had been laughingly carried to her seat beside him by her sisters.

“Mazel tov,” they had whispered to Gitty, but loud enough for Boruch to overhear. “He’s a gem, we’re so proud. May you and Boruch always have as much simchah, mazel, and respect for each other as you do today.”

“Amen!” answered Gitty, her heart so complete there was no room to bear any grudge over the past.

“Amen!” whispered Boruch, knowing their story was now just beginning.

I wiped away a tear. I was so, so happy for them! After everything they had been through, baruch Hashem! They would have a beautiful, happy life together and raise a family of yerei Shamayim. I just knew it!

Save! Save! Oh, my gosh. File, Save. Phew.

I stood up from my chair and stretched my back. I felt so good. So accomplished. Filled with success!

My first novel! Now that I had celebrated the happy ending, the beautiful culmination of their struggles, I couldn’t bear revisiting all the trials and angst the characters endured. I’d leave their story as is, with this one emotional paragraph.

Who said I couldn’t write?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 528)