I'm at that delightful and terrifying stage of writing a book. The one where I wonder if I can do it. The story is so much bigger than I am. But the contract is on the way, so I get to write it.
This book is one where I want to emphasize I. Get. To. Write. It. I first discovered the idea and started talking to editors about it in the fall of 2010. The conversations - at least in my head - also included the knowledge that I would have to earn the right to write this story. And it's a story that burned in my soul to be told.
It returns to World War II, yet in Italy. The rest of my World War II novels have been set in the United States. While it's set in Italy, it's
not a typical war story. It focuses on an intriguing facet.
Now that I'm actually writing the book, I'm rereading my research books. Rediscovering the nuances that made me so passionate about this story. That created the burning in my gut that this was a story I had to tell. I'm savoring a war diary written by a British
woman who married an Italian and they owned an estate near the setting for my book. Her perspective and insight is amazing. And I'm picking up enough story threads and details to literally have me thanking God for leading me to it.
At the same time, I'm terrified of this story. It's one I know I can't write on my own. I almost feel like Moses -- if You don't go with me, God, then don't send me. I covet your prayers as I research and write this story over the next four months. I crave favor and direction. That God would breath life into this story. Because if He's not in it and if it's not a sacrifice of praise to Him, I don't want to spend my next months on it.